


Of Shoulder Scars and Bumpy Cake

by PleaseDontGetMeRescued



Series: Of Shoulder Scars And Bumpy Cake [1]
Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-21
Updated: 2012-08-21
Packaged: 2017-11-12 15:22:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 31,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/492685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PleaseDontGetMeRescued/pseuds/PleaseDontGetMeRescued
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, Clint forgot that Natasha was just a kid. Except for the times that she wasn't.<br/>Rated for violence and some mature themes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Shoulder Scars and Bumpy Cake

**Author's Note:**

> Note1: 31,723 words, 55 pages, and two straight weeks of my sleepless life and this is what you get. So, hopefully someone out there likes this. Special thanks to Kara and Maddie for all of their input and answering my random questions at two AM such "Random foreign cities. Go!", "Random foods you find in your pantry that are decently acceptable for breakfast. ASAP!", and "Random things guys try to do to you when they want to get in your pants. Now!" I could not have done it without them! Love you guys.  
> This story is my Mona Lisa. It is my baby and my masterpiece and I love it. I hope you guys love it too. If you do love it, reviews are encouraged.  
> Disclaimer: I do not in any way, shape, or form own the Avengers or its characters. If I did, I would currently being lying naked in bed with Clint Barton and not fully clothed, eating Cheez-Its with my two Maddie friends. That is all.  
> Happy Reading!  
> Note 2: I posted this to ff.net last month but I finally was able to upload it here! Enjoy!

Author's Note – 31,723 words, 55 pages, and two straight weeks of my sleepless life and this is what you get. So, hopefully someone out there likes this. Special thanks to Kara and Maddie for all of their input and answering my random questions at two AM such "Random foreign cities. Go!", "Random foods you find in your pantry that are decently acceptable for breakfast. ASAP!", and "Random things guys try to do to you when they want to get in your pants. Now!" I could not have done it without them! Love you guys.   
This story is my Mona Lisa. It is my baby and my masterpiece and I love it. I hope you guys love it too. If you do love it, reviews are encouraged.   
Disclaimer: I do not in any way, shape, or form own the Avengers or its characters. If I did, I would be doing something a lot more exciting that eating Cheez-Its with my two Maddie friends. That is all.  
Happy Reading!  
*Edits - Some fixed typos as of 23 April

 

Sometimes, Clint forgot that Natasha was just a kid.   
She was so mature, so dangerous, so beautiful. But, she was only sixteen. She was eleven years his junior, and he couldn’t get her off his mind.  
After sparing her life, bringing her to SHIELD, becoming her partner, and having her placed under his responsibility, he was forced to share an apartment with her. To say that Fury didn’t trust her would be an understatement. As far as Fury was concerned, Agent Romanoff could be at HQ during daylight hours but never any other time. If Clint trusted her enough to not kill her, then he trusted her enough to live with her until she was legally old enough to own an apartment, end of discussion, Agent Barton.  
There were times when he’d swear she had to be in at least her mid-twenties. Like, for example, during missions. Natasha was absolutely no nonsense. Sure, Clint would tease and make jokes over the coms unit. Until, that is, either Natasha threatened him with his life or Phil threatened him with his job. But, once he quieted down and quit the jokes, he really started focusing on her. He’d perch up someplace high (the building across the street, up in the rafters), and watch as she effortlessly took down multiple men at least twice her size. Her flaming red hair flew wildly as the men she fought flew even more wildly across the room, dead before she even batted her pretty, long eyelashes.   
At times like those Clint wondered what her number was. At only the age of sixteen, he was positive that she had at least twice as many kills as he did. She made him look like a rookie half the time.   
And then, there, of course, were the times when she didn’t have to kill, only extract information and get out. He’d watch as she got ready, applying her makeup and doing her hair to make her look years older than she actually was. And then, he’d watch as she worked, always right there, watching her back. He’d notice how her hips swayed and her lips pouted. He noticed how her methods of seduction were much too advanced for a girl her age. And, while his brain told him that it was sick, she’s just a kid, his body told him otherwise. After all, how could he not notice the way she looked, the gentle curves of her body and the supple pout of her lips?  
And, despite what his head told him, he knew. He knew that, although she was technically just a kid, she had grown up ages ago. He’d seen that look in her eye the night he’d gone to end her life. And, even though her face was stoic and composed when she went in for the kill, that brief glance over her shoulder and the flicker of fear in her eye said it all. She was scared.  
# # #  
“Holy Fuck,” Clint cursed as he witnessed The Black Widow, undoubtedly less than five foot five, take down a gang of seven grown men at least twice her size. He couldn’t see her face, only the lithe physique from behind and her flaming red hair as she pushed it out of her face and rose from her crouched position over one of the men whose throat she had just split. She wiped the blood from her knife on the leg of her suit before reattaching it to the holster at her thigh.   
Suddenly her shoulders stiffened and she glanced behind her to watch her own back. For one quick, heart pounding second, Clint was sure she could see him. He was perched in a tree at least one hundred yards from where she stood over the huddle of dead men, their blood staining the snow outside of a rogue scientist’s lab hidden high up in the Swiss Alps. His heart pounded in his chest. His first thought was a rather long, inappropriate string of expletives, sure that he was spotted. His second thought though was, fuck, she’s just a little girl.   
And she was. Well, kind of. Her eyes were wide and observant and her face held the tiniest trace of baby fat. She wasn’t tall, but not short either. Her hips were narrow and her hair fell in long, red waves down the back of her suit. She had to be at least sixteen, based on her height, but she was underdeveloped and undernourished, too skinny. Clint could practically see her ribs through her suit, even from the distance. Her face looked momentarily innocent, despite what Clint had seen her do not seconds before, as she swept her gaze over the snow-blanketed land.  
But, she wasn’t scanning the tree tops like he thought she would. Instead, she was searching the ground level as if someone would jump out from behind a tree and come for her. Clint didn’t doubt that she could take anyone down, but the visible, momentary flash of fear across her features was a dead giveaway: she knew she was being hunted by more than one organization. Clint was sure. The frightened look hardened into one of focus and determination. She had a job to finish, after all. She turned swiftly on her heel and started towards the now unarmed door of the lab. Clint paused. He knew at this point he should go into attack mode, loose an arrow straight into her chest. She was a murderer, after all. But, then again, so was he.   
She was so young. Clint had no idea she would only be a child when he had agreed to this mission. There had to be some sort of innocence left in her. Little girls don’t just up and decide to become internationally feared assassins. And that look in her eyes that he had seen before: she was scared. She didn’t trust her employer and, based off of the fact that she was looking over her shoulder, they didn’t trust her either. But, she was good. The best out there, if her reputation spoke the volumes that it did. SHIELD could use her.  
Clint adjusted his position on the tree limb he was currently occupying. He cursed as one of the branches cracked under his weight. And, before he knew it, the crack! had alerted Romanoff and she was spinning on him, gun pointed in his general direction. The branch cracked again as he shuffled his weight a bit more to avoid falling but the tell-tale noise only served to help the Black Widow zero in on her new target: him.  
The phrases “Don’t shoot!” and “I’m not going to hurt you” (which of course would have been lies anyway) crossed his mind momentarily. But, in the end, he simply loosed and arrow and hit the young girl in the shoulder, causing her to drop her weapon. She didn’t fall though, and she didn’t cry out. The only sound she made was a muffled grunt when the arrow made impact.   
Clint jumped down from his position in the tree and slowly made his way towards her. Natasha hustled to pick her weapon up, this time with her left hand. And, although it was clearly not her dominant hand, Hawkeye was not going to underestimate this girl. He kept his distance. “A lot of people want you dead, Miss Romanoff.”  
“Really? I had no idea,” she quipped sarcastically, ripping the arrow out of her shoulder. Her voice came out a little strained, but her aim at him was completely unwavering.   
Clint took a few more steps towards her. Her quick once over of him was so fast he nearly missed it. “I’m Agent Barton of-”  
“SHIELD,” she finished for him, eyeing the badge sown on the arm of his suit with distain. “I always figured it would be you guys that would catch me. Congratulations.” Clint noticed the slight hint of a Russian accent lacing her words, but far less than he would have suspected.   
“I can assure you, Miss Romanoff,” he took a few more steps. Now, he was circling her. “I had every intention of killing you.”  
“Yes, well, you’re aim is a little off, Agent Barton.” She gestured to her shoulder with a nod of her head. “You might want to work on that.” The smirk that graced her face was so devilish, it caused Clint to shudder. Little girls shouldn’t be able to smirk like that!  
“If you don’t mind my asking, how old are you, Miss Romanoff?” He continued his slow circles around her. His bow was not drawn but that doesn’t mean he wasn’t on his guard.   
“Why does that matter?”  
“Just answer the question.” Within the blink of an eye he had an arrow draw and had the head poking at the back of her neck. A little more pressure and he’d be drawing blood.   
Natasha rolled her eyes in a true teenage fashion. “I’m pretty sure I’ll be sixteen on the eleventh.”  
“Pretty sure?” Clint asked, confused. His brow furrowed, and he bow lowered only slightly, but it was enough for her to roundhouse kick the bow from his hand and have him on the ground, snow soaking through his shirt, before he could blink. She was straddling him now, the knife she had used to kill the seven guards now placed delicately against his throat.   
“Birthdays aren’t all that important where I come from.” Clint watched as a tiny drop of blood ran from the back of her neck down her chest, from where his arrow had scratched her when she (literally) kicked him on his sorry ass. “Now, Agent Barton, what is it that you want from me? If you were going to kill me, you would have taken the shot while you were up in that tree.” She was leaning over him, her hair tickling his face annoyingly.   
“I want to bring you in.” The truth couldn’t hurt, could it?  
“Sorry,” she slammed him head back into the snow and ice. Yup, the truth could hurt. “Being taken in alive isn’t really on my to-do list any time soon, Agent Barton. My regrets for the inconvenience.” The venom in her tone, quite honestly, frightened him. Just a little though.   
Seriously, what kind of fifteen year-old-girl says something like that?  
“You’re just a kid.”  
“And yet it appears I have the upper hand here, doesn’t it?” She smirked again.  
“Listen, Miss Romanoff.” He kept his face perfectly composed despite the fact that he was currently pinned under a deadly (however tiny) fifteen-year-old girl. Show no fear, Clint. Show no fear. “My handler, Coulson, he’s a good guy. I’m sure he could manage to get you a job for SHIELD. You’re certainly skilled enough.”  
“And why on Earth would I ever want that?” she snarled.  
“Because,” he shrugged as best he could under the circumstances. “You’re alone and starving,” he poked her ribs for emphasis. She growled. “And terrified of whoever it is that currently has you employed.” To anyone else her expression would appear to have been unflinching, even bored. But, Clint Barton could see right through her. She was confused. “You’d better watch those microexpressions, honey. They’ll give you away every time.” He knew he was pushing his luck when he reached up to tap her nose. The pressure of her knife against his throat increased. Her eyes flashed in anger. “Oops, there you go again. Now you’re angry,” he grunted as a small line of blood appeared on his neck.  
With a growl the Black Widow shoved off of him. She stood and threw her knife where his head had been only moments before. Clint was already on his feet. Natasha was applying pressure to the wound in her shoulder, peeling back the layers of her suit to examine it. It would scar. “What kind of agent are you? Refusing to kill one of the most ruthless assassins on the planet, trying to bring her in, get her a job. Why would SHIELD ever hire a clown like you?”  
“Well, I did grow up in the circus.”   
“Seriously?” She looked up from her would in amused disbelief, only to find Barton no longer in front of her. She spun just in time to feel the tell-tale prick of a needle at the back of her neck. Stupid! she scolded herself internally, already falling to the snow as the drugs pumped through her system. How could I be so careless to let my guard down?   
Her world started to go hazy. She threw a few aimless punches Barton’s way as he bent to pick her up. He unceremoniously tossed the deadly girl over his shoulder and wandered off to find the vehicle he had parked further down the mountain. He ignored the slowly weakening hits to his back from the nearly unconscious girl in his arms. Her voice was slurred when she said, “No fair. You cheated.”   
Now, that was the kind of thing little girls say.  
# # #  
To say he had his ass handed to him would be just a bit of an understatement.   
Coulson said nothing when Clint Barton entered transport carrying the body of an obviously unconscious Black Widow. Phil wasn’t surprised. Not at all. This was Barton, after all. Phil was beyond confident that the fifty percent of the time that Barton wasn’t winging his missions, he purposely did something crazy just to annoy his handler. Coulson raised a brow as Clint dumped the girl’s body onto the medic cot in the corner of the quinjet. Clint just shrugged. Lord have mercy, Coulson groaned internally, looking to the Heavens.   
“So it went okay, I see.”  
“Meh,” Clint shrugged again. “Not too bad.”  
The rest of the flight back to the Helicarrier was decidedly silent. However, Clint was not, under any circumstances surprised when he was called into Director Fury’s office the moment he stepped on base. Oh gosh, he thought, this’ll be good.  
The following conversation was anything but brief. It consequently involved a lot of Are you motherfucking kidding me’s (courtesy of Fury), and quite a few Sir, I understand why you’re upset’s (courtesy of Clint). Nearly two hours after initially walking into Fury’s office, the director collapsed back into his seat, rubbing the bridge of his nose irately. “You better not fucking mess this up, Barton or so help me God.”  
“You’ll see, Sir,” Clint jumped out of his seat, headed for the door and a much needed shower. “I have everything under control.”  
Oh, how wrong he was.  
# # #  
When he thought back on it, it was actually a bit frightening how many SHIELD agents the Romanoff girl had seriously injured before anyone was able to sedate her again. But then again, why had he ever thought it was a good idea to simply leave her handcuffed to a medic bed with only two guards outside the door? He had no idea.   
The first moment Natasha woke up in the medic center, she was, though she’d never admit it, impressed. (Sure, he’d taken her down with a cheap shot, but she couldn’t deny that Clint Barton sure was sneaky. The bastard.) The feeling wore off in about two seconds flat, however, when she started to observe her surroundings. It was a tiny room with a tiny little bed. Her wrists were cuffed to the metal railings on either side of the cot. She scoffed. Handcuffs, seriously? Who did they think she was, an amateur? She’d learned how to uncuff herself when she was six. It was practically the first thing they taught you in Red Room. With a few quick maneuvers she was free and had her back pressed against the wall by the door, peeking out at the two SHIELD guards stationed there. She moved her shoulder experimentally, checking the damage Barton had inflicted on it earlier. It seemed to be treated and wrapped.   
Are they for real? She rolled her eyes and moved on. Before the guards outside even knew what was happening, she had the door open and one of the burly men on the ground, one hand clutching his broken nose, dripping blood, and the other down near his, ehem, parts.   
The second guard proved to be a little more difficult, however only slightly. He just nearly managed a swift punch to her ribs. The hit would have landed too if Natasha hadn’t totally seen that coming and snatched at his fist before it made contact. She smirked and the satisfying crunch of bones as she broke a few (or all) of the fingers in his right hand. With a perfectly-executed roundhouse kick to the temple, the second guard was down too, unconscious for at least an hour.  
Natasha nonchalantly brushed the hair from her eyes, surveying her surroundings once again. There was no one else in the hallway with her. That was almost too easy, she rolled her eyes again. As she was just about to find an exit, an alarm blared. She looked behind her to see the guard whose nose she had bashed had hit the alarm button on the wall beside the room she had previously been occupying. She scowled at the man before roughly slamming his head into the ground, effectively knocking him out.   
The girl quickly analyzed the situation. The thought of finding a way to shut the alarm off briefly flitted across her mind only to be instantly shot down. Not enough time, she assessed. They entire base had already been alerted to her escape. Might as well find a way out then.  
She sprinted around the corner, only to be met by a group of four more agents, each holding a gun. Quick thinking in action, Natasha landed a kick to the first female agent’s midsection. The gun flew from her hand and Natasha unflinchingly snatched it out of the air. Then, the other guards started shooting. A bullet flew past her face, nicking a bit of her hair. Another just barely skimmed her upper arm, ripping through the sleeve of her suit and a bit of her flesh. She shrugged it off. She’d had worse.   
Then Natasha started shooting. She wasn’t aiming to kill, hell no. If she managed to actually kill any of SHIELD’s agents, they’d certainly take back their job offer, not that she was planning on taking it. She hit one of the agents in the thigh and delivered a brain-rattling kick to the temple of the agent she had already disarmed. A shot to the shoulder of the third and one final through-and-through to the chest of the last and she was moving on down the hall, picking up a spare gun on the way.   
She made it through a few more corridors before she was met with another round of agents. They blindsided her, one ripped the firearm from her hand while another wrapped their arms around her neck in a chokehold. A hard stomp to his instep and an elbow to his temple and she was pulling the spare gun from the holster to her thigh. A shot to the foot, a shot to the collarbone. Two more down. Another agent tackled her and pinned her to the floor. With a bit of squirming, she had her leg up between them and delivered a kick to his jaw, sending him through the air and, more importantly, off of her. A woman came at her from the side and Natasha quickly dodged the punch being thrown her way before grabbing the other woman by the neck and viciously shoving her fingers into a pressure point there. Yet another guard leveled his gun to her forehead from where he stood not ten feet away. The young assassin sighed and shot him in the forearm, no doubt breaking a few bones while at it.   
And it went on like this. She’d make her way down hallway, blindly looking for an escape, stumble across a group of agents, effortlessly take them down, and move on. SHIELD really needs to up their training programs, she thought dryly as she finished off yet another round of agents.   
She rounded a corner only to be met with her capturer. “Agent Barton, fancy meeting you here.”  
“What are you doing, Romanoff?” he asked, coming towards her. If the emotion hadn’t been beaten out of her at a young age, the glare on his face surely would have inflicted fear upon the young girl.   
“Making my escape. What does it look like?”  
“It looks like you just seriously injured over thirty SHIELD agents!” He went to make a grab at her arm, like a father pulling his child away from a corrupting influence. Too bad she was already corrupted. Within seconds she had him flat on his back, straddling him yet again. She firmly pushed her fingers into the pressure point at his neck before slamming his head back into the ground, rendering him unconscious.   
“Make that thirty-one.”  
And she was off again. Luckily, she didn’t get intercepted again for quite a few corridors. But, just when she though she’s made her escape, coming to a large, airtight door, a furious, ice cold voice made her pause. “Miss Romanoff.” Her hand hovered over the large green button labelled open. The bald, one eyed, African American man hovering behind her glowered. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you. Not unless you want to fall over forty thousand feet from this aircraft.”  
Aircraft, what the hell? Thoroughly confused, the Black Widow peeked out the tiny window of the door. She was surprised, to say the least, when she saw nothing but blue skies and fluffy white clouds. She was even more surprised to feel the prick of a needle against the back of her neck.   
Fuck, not again.  
# # #  
The second time Natasha woke up was slightly less pleasant and easy going. There was a steady throbbing in her head, indicating that whoever baldy was had used a stronger, less friendly sedative than Barton had.   
Speaking of Barton.   
The agent of SHIELD sat glowering in the corner of her room, the same one she’d been placed in earlier, by the looks of it. He kept rubbing the back of his head where Natasha suspected a bandage was from when he had hit the floor. Whoops.  
Natasha said nothing. Just stared at him in silence, blinking, and trying to look innocent. After a few moments he noticed she was awake and with an annoyed scoff, addressed her. “Well, good morning, sunshine. Did you sleep well?” Natasha opened her mouth to say something equally as snarky but the older agent cut her off before she could even get a syllable out. “Actually, you know what. I don’t even care about that. You know what I really care about? How about the thirty seven SHIELD agents, including myself that you put in the medic wing. What were you thinking? I gave you a chance and-”  
At this point Natasha tuned him out. She wasn’t really concerned with his sentiment anyway. Instead she focused on getting out again. This time, they had been smart enough to put her in a straitjacket instead of just cuffs. Meh, she thought. They tried. Getting out of a strait jacket was tricky. Tricky, but not impossible. She’d been in worse situations after all.   
Clint was too busy pacing back and forth ranting to pay too much mind to the slight rustling coming from the bed against the wall. “I mean, God dammit, Romanoff. Those were innocent agents, every last one of them. They weren’t some random target that you can just take out because your boss at Red Room told you too. For fuck’s sake.”  
And really, Natasha felt a little bit bad about interrupting his rant but meh, c’est la vie, as they say. “Barton. Barton.” It took a few tries but, “Barton!”  
“What?” he yelled, finally facing her way.  
“I know how to get out of a straitjacket.” She held the offending garment from one of her fingers before flinging it at his feet.  
“Oh for the love of-” he tackled. He didn’t want her to make another hasty exit. With her body pressed completely into the floor, Clint was satisfied that she wasn’t going anywhere. He was just about to continue scolding her like the child she technically was when she smirk up at him and-  
“My, Agent Barton. It seems we’re becoming pretty familiar with this position.”   
Seriously, what the fuck kind of fifteen year of says fucked up shit like that?  
“Cut it out, Romanoff.” He pointed a finger in her face, thoroughly pissed off now. “I fucking stuck my neck out for you. I gave you a change when my orders were to shoot your heart out of your chest. That is how much my boss wanted you dead. But, I gave you a shot. I gave you the chance to get away from those awful people that turned you into this: a mindless killing machine. Yeah, I see right through you. You’re afraid of them and I gave you an opportunity. And you know what, the Director actually wanted you. I convinced him to give you a chance too. But now you’ve fucked that up. So now, you’ve got three options. One, I can kill you like I was originally supposed to. Two, you can try to escape again and the entire SHIELD Agency will come a find you and hunt you down. Or, option three which, in my opinion is your best option. You can take the job my boss has, hopefully, not retracted and come work for people that aren’t using, manipulating, and trying to kill you. Take your pick.”  
Natasha scowled like a teenage being grounded. “I’ll think about it,” she spat, violently pushing Barton off of her and climbing back onto her cot.  
God, all this taking responsibility for her actions shit was really giving her a headache.   
# # #  
She took the job. Obviously. Really, it was the best option, like Barton had said. Black Widow’s Op would assume she had been killed off when she didn’t return to base within the allotted time and they’d move on to replace her with some other little girl turned assassin.   
And by the end of the day, she was walking through the front door of Barton’s studio apartment, which she now was being forced to call home. Fury had been adamant. She’s your responsibility now, Barton. Do not fuck this up.  
So now here they were, stuck together in his small studio apartment for the rest of the foreseeable future seeing as she wasn’t allowed to go on missions, even though she was technically now an agent of SHIELD. Apparently there were a lot of pre-employment measures that needed to be taken care of. Whatever that meant. They stood together in the living room, Natasha observing the small space, unsure of what else to do. A few targets lined the walls, and there was a shaky looking ladder leading up to an open upper level that housed the bed. Finally, after quite some time of semi-awkward silence, Barton rubbed a hand down his face in fatigue. “Do whatever you want, Romanoff. But, you get the couch. And, I swear to God if you try to kill me in my sleep I’ll put an arrow through your eye socket.”  
Natasha scoffed, flopping back onto the couch, never quite taking her wary eye off him. “I’d like to see you try, Barton.”  
# # #  
She was a good roommate. He wouldn’t say that she was easy to get along with, though. She didn’t really talk, mostly kept to herself waiting for Fury to let her go on assignment. Three weeks after she’d moved in he still knew nothing about her beside what he found in her file, which wasn’t much.   
Name: Natasha Romanoff  
Codename: Black Widow  
Descent: Russian  
Age: (Estimated) Fifteen  
Date of Birth: Unknown  
Parents: Deceased  
Training: Courtesy of The Black Widows Ops Program; Red Room. Trained in various types of martial arts including but not limited to karate, krav maga, taekwondo, sambo. Other skills include but are not limited to knife throwing, extreme hand-to-hand combat, a firearm handling.   
Classification: Extremely dangerous.  
And that was it. That was all Clint knew about his new roommate. Well, that and what he could assume just from living with her. She couldn’t cook. At least that’s what he figured seeing as she simply snuck fruit snack and apples from the pantry when he wasn’t looking. She always hung her towel up after showering. She didn’t watch television. All she really ever did was go with him to HQ and train. She was always training, day and night. But, apart from the minute things, he really knew nothing. But he wanted to.   
“So just out of curiosity,” he asked her one day. “What does a fifteen year old assassin do for fun?”  
“Fun?” she ask, as if confused by the term.  
“Yeah, like if you didn’t spend every waking moment training and eating all of my fruit snacks, what would you be doing?”  
Natasha pondered the question for a moment before answering. “I don’t know. Maybe read. I’ve never really had much time for stuff like that though.”  
“I see,” he said, nodding his head before getting up and leaving the table they were sitting at for lunch at HQ.  
What the hell was that? she wondered. Sometimes he confused her.  
# # #  
On November eleventh Natasha woke up from sleeping on the couch to the sound of Barton shouting in her ear. Needless to say it scared the shit out of her. Before she even knew what was happening she had her gun out from under her pillow and was pulling the trigger. Thankfully, due to her sleep clouded mind she missed (just barely) him all together. She sighed in relief when she realized the slug had imbedded itself in the wall next to the front door. Fury wouldn’t be too happy if she managed to shoot another one of his agents.  
“What the fuck are you doing? Are you trying to get yourself killed?” She was screaming but Barton just stared at her with a shit-eating grin.   
“Happy Birthday!”  
Natasha stared at him in annoyance. “It’s not my birthday,” she said dryly.  
“Sure it is. It’s November eleventh!” He shoved a white envelope in her face which she snatched away before he became even more annoying.  
“I said I thought the eleventh was my birthday.”  
“Eh, whatever. It’s your birthday now. Go on, open it.”  
Hesitantly, Natasha slid her finger under the flap of the envelope and pulled out a little plastic card. “What is it?”  
“It’s a gift card to the book shop down the street. Now that you’re not randomly killing people twenty four seven, you have time to read books. At least, until Fury puts you on assignment. Oh, and come here!” He pulled on her hand and led her over to the kitchen area. She snatched her hand away from his, not used to physical contact unless it came in the form of a death blow. Barton rolled his eyes at her before pointing to a white box sitting on the table. The label said Sander’s and inside sat a chocolate cake with parallel convex bumps on top. “It’s a chocolate bumpy cake, the best kind of cake there is. I thought about making you some kind of Russian dessert but they looked hard so this’ll have to work. Come on! Try it.” He was like a little kid on Christmas morning as he cut her a huge slice of chocolate bumpy cake.   
“Barton, it’s nine o’clock in the morning.”  
“Oh come one, live a little! A little cake for breakfast never hurt anyone.” Natasha sighed, brushed her red, bed-matted hair from her face, and grabbed a fork, digging in. And, dear God, she nearly moaned at the first bite. This was better than any Russian dessert Barton could have made her. “Do you like it?” His voice was hopeful.  
She only nodded, swallowed, and asked what had been on her mind since the moment he’d shoved the envelope in her face. “Why are you being so nice to me?”  
Barton shrugged, digging into his own cake. “It’s your birthday. Besides, we can’t treat you like a captive for the rest of your life. Eventually, we’re going to have to get along. Why not now?”  
Natasha flashed him the briefest of smiles. It was so quick he nearly missed it. “Thanks, Barton.”  
“Any time, roomie.” The unexpected pet name catches her off guard and she nearly chokes on her cake and she starts laughing so hard at the ridiculousness of it all. She coughs a bit, trying to clear the chocolaty goodness from her throat and then she’s laughing again. She laughs so hard she snorts, startling them both into momentary silence. She’s never laughed so hard in her entire life and the look on Barton’s face only adds to the humor f it all. She starts laughing and snorting again and Clint can’t help but think that it’s his favorite thing about her. Not the way she’s skilled at her work, not the way she pushes him further in sparring than any other SHIELD agent has ever pushed him before, but her ridiculous snorting laugh.  
Yeah, he could get used to hearing that.   
# # #  
After Natasha’s birthday, things only went uphill for the pair of them. Clint had taken her to the bookstore where she had happily picked up a few books from the best seller section, including all seven Harry Potter books, and a few others. But, it was the morning that Clint came downstairs to find Natasha sitting on the kitchen counter eating her left over birthday cake out of the box that he knew she was starting to let her guard down around him.   
And so, the two started a tentative friendship. They bantered. A lot. They teased and poked fun because really, it was either that or kill each other. And neither was particularly fond of the idea of getting of Fury’s bad side. They occasionally sparred at HQ, and over time learned more about each other. Like how they were both orphans, had both lost a sibling. Natasha had trained extensively in ballet. Clint had a dog when he was younger, named Moose. Natasha couldn’t even remember her parents’ names. They both had messed up childhoods. Natasha had been in Red Room since she was six. She’d never had a day off since then.  
That was why Clint thought she was so quiet all the time. After ten years of non-stop chaos, fighting, and killing, she finally had some time to just be. When she was at peace, curled up in an armchair at the apartment, reading her books, or when he found her doing yoga in the morning before he even woke up.   
Those were his favorite days. He’d sit across from her, pretending to read the newspaper but actually just watching. Occasionally, he’d see the slight lift in the corner of her mouth when something she read was funny, or the barely noticeable contraction of her brow when something was not to her liking. And then sometimes, though even more rare there was that little twinkle in her eye when something romantic happens, not that she’d ever admit to being an internal romantic. But, those microexpressions gave her away every time. And that made him happy. Because in those moments when she was too enraptured by the storyline or too focused on her breathing to notice him staring, it was in those moments that she got the chance to be a kid. She got to make up for all of that lost time.   
# # #  
When Natasha was finally given an assignment, she felt relieved and annoyed. Relieved because, although the last two months of “down time” (which is really just Coulson’s way of saying Fury doesn’t trust her) had been relaxing and, dare she say it, fun, she’s been getting antsy. She spent all of her time either in the training rooms at HQ or on Barton’s couch. She had been itching for an assignment and now she has one. On the other hand, she is annoyed. And, although it’s not at all surprising that she is “partnered” with Barton on this mission (Coulson’s nice way of informing her that Barton will be acting as her babysitter), it still pisses her off. She works alone. Always has and, if it hadn’t been for Fury, always would have. She has never once in her life had a partner and the thought of having to watch someone else’s back, on top of her own, is daunting to say the least.   
She didn’t mind Barton. He bought her books and gave her chocolate cake. What more could she ask for? But, all around he was a good guy. And that was what made Natasha nervous. Because even though he was a good guy, she wasn’t a good girl by any standards. Someone trained to kill since toddler age can’t be good. Especially her. And for that reason, she hope Barton was as skilled as SHIELD seemed to think he was because, as hard as she planned on trying, she didn’t know how to watch a back that wasn’t her own.  
During briefing, Coulson explained to Natasha how working with Barton was going to work. The mission was in Chile. A South American drug lord had been picking off the family members of his dealers who couldn’t deliver. The man’s name was Armando Montez and he was getting greedy. If his dealers couldn’t sell every last speck of powder or every last pill, one of their family members would not-so-mysteriously disappear. That wasn’t okay with SHIELD.  
“Okay, Clint is going to be external eyes. Our intel tells us that Montez frequents at this bar.” Coulson laid a picture of a dingy looking bar on the table in front of her. “That’ll where you’ll meet him. Clint will be stationed on the roof of the building across the street keep an eye on you. You find out what he’s done with the missing and then you know what to do from there. Quick and easy.”  
“So I get to do all the heavy lifting then?” She stared down at the picture of Montez. His beady eyes seemed to be looking straight through her. She couldn’t wait to take him down.  
“Clint isn’t specially trained in hand-to-hand combat like you are,” Coulson explained, tucking the photos on the table back into a file and handing to Clint.  
“Is that why you’re so easy to pin, Barton?” she teased.  
“Ha-ha very funny.” He rolled his eyes. “Let’s just get this over with.”  
On the quinjet ride out after briefing, Coulson handed Natasha a coms unit. “What is it?” she asked. She had never used or needed one before, having worked alone.  
“It’s for communication,” Coulson explained. “It goes in your ear.” Just then Barton grabbed the little earpiece from her hand and shoved in into her ear canal. She swatted his hand away before adjusting the piece so that it actually fit right.  
“Yeah, thanks, Barton, I got it.” He just grinned at her, placing his own com unit in his ear.   
# # #  
Clint was a little nervous. He’d never been nervous for a mission before but, then again, he’d never worked with Natasha before either. Nobody really knew what kind of crazy training she’d gone through or how the Red Room had taught her to take down a target. SHIELD liked clean and inconspicuous but Natasha had never done a SHIELD Op before. As he positioned himself on the roof across from Bar Azul, he prayed all would go well.   
“Natasha, can you hear me?” he spoke into his coms unit. She didn’t reply but he could see the almost imperceptible nod of her head as she made her way over to sit at the bar. The legal drinking age in Chile was eighteen but if the flowing white skirt and tight fitting blue tank top didn’t do the trick, the quick bats of her eyelashes did and Natasha managed to have a drink placed in front of her in minutes. She looked innocent and dangerous all at the same time. Or perhaps it was because he knew that she had a gun securely tucked into the side of her boot that made her seem so dangerous.   
Montez glanced at her from the other end of the bar. He was surrounded by goons but Clint still had a clear shot lined up to puncture his eye socket if needed. Over the next half hour Natasha didn’t move, she simply sat there and sipped her drink quietly. Clint’s fingers were aching from holding his position for so long but Natasha was exotic and young and beautiful and he knew Montez wouldn’t be able to resist her for much longer. Eventually, the target brushed his goons aside and approached Natasha.   
Clint’s Spanish was perfect, however his Chilean dialect was a bit rusty and there was a bit of static over the coms unit. From what he could make out, Natasha claimed to be visiting her aunt just outside of town. She told Montez that she was born in America but was raised in Argentina when her father got transferred there for work. Her Chilean dialect seemed to be in perfect condition and Clint didn’t have to be standing next to him to know that Montez believed every word. The poor bastard was practically eating out of Natasha’s hand. The girl batted her eyelashes and ran her fingers down the drug lord’s arm delicately. Clint had to restrain himself from losing an arrow when he saw the slimy scumbag placed his hand on his partner’s upper thigh. But, Natasha just smiled at him flirtatiously and took his hand, leading him out of the bar, leaving the gaggle of goons behind.  
What Clint did not expect was for Natasha to let the man lead her down the street away from the crowds. He swore under his breath. “Natasha, what the fuck are you doing?” he growled through the coms. Natasha, clearly pretending to be drunk, stumbled over a crack in the pavement, lifting a hand to appear as if she was steadying herself. Clint knew though that she was signalling him to stay back. He waited only a moment before following close behind anyway. He leapt from roof to roof silently, trying to maintain visual on his new partner. He watch as Montez lead Natasha into a seedy looking motel and a moment later saw him draw the blinds in a room on the second story. Fuck. “Natasha, you need to get those blinds back open. I can’t see you.” He got no response. “It’s really fucking hard to watch your back if I can’t see it!” Still nothing.   
Clint panicked momentarily. Shit, what the fuck is she doing? She’s too young. She’s going to get herself killed. Jesus Christ. He heard what sounded like the rustle of clothing over the coms and listened closer. He heard the tell-tale sound of lips pulling apart and then finally her voice, cooing softly to the dangerous man as if he was no more lethal than a puppy. “So, Armando, what have you done with them?” He was already running. He sprinted down the fire escape on the side of the building he’d been hiding out of and ran across the street. Shit was about to get ugly.  
“With what?” The drug lord’s voice came out breathy and strained but somehow still crystal clear over the sound of Clint’s own pulse in his ears.  
“The family members of your dealers, of course.”  
Clint heard Montez swear followed by breaking glass and a feminine grunt. Clint was momentarily delayed as the clerk at the desk tried to stop him but, Clint just landed a hard hit to his jaw and kept running. He was just reaching the top of the stairs when he heard gunshots. He followed the sound and broke down the door, landing an arrow in the dead middle of Montez’s forehead before the door even hit the wall. He scanned the room and finally spotted Natasha. She stood, hands on her hips, looking pissed. There was a cut on her cheek that didn’t look too bad and a bruise forming on her side from where, Clint assumed, Montez had pushed her into the table, causing the shattered lamp. Her glare was so ice cold, if Clint hadn’t been equally as pissed as her, it might have scared him.  
“What the fuck was that?” she yelled, gesturing to the now dead drug lord.  
“What the fuck was that? That was me saving your ass! What the fuck was that stunt you just pulled, huh, Romanoff?” He was furious. How could she have been so careless?  
“I had everything under control! Now, we’ll never find out what he did with all of those people!” She furiously pointed at the dead body lying next to the bed, and for the first time Clint realized that Natasha was shirtless. Her tank top lay in a heap at the foot of the bed, and Clint irately bent to pick it up, throwing it at her.  
“SHIELD will take care of it. Get dressed; we don’t have time for this shit.”   
Natasha continued to glare at him as she slipped her top over her head and tucked it in to the waistband of her skirt. She picked the gun out of her boot and roughly shoved her feet into them, not bothering to tie the laces. Guns at the ready, the pair started for the exit but paused when they heard the barking of guard dogs and the angry shouts from around the corner. With a curse, Clint grabbed Natasha by the arm and pulled her to the window. Unlike the building across the street, this one didn’t have a fire escape so they were forced the jump. They leapt out the window just as the police were reaching the motel room door. The SHIELD agents rolled to their feet and ran, not stopping until they reached transport.   
# # #  
“How the fuck did you two manage to fuck up such a simple mission?”   
Clint and Natasha had immediately been escorted to Director Fury’s office upon landing safely aboard the Helicarrier, a meeting neither had been looking forward to on the silent flight back from Chile. Now, standing in Fury’s office there was a moment of silence before they both started yelling at once.  
“I had everything under control until he came in guns blazing!”  
“She was so careless! It was the most thoughtless mission execution I have ever seen!”  
“He killed the bastard before I even got any information out of him!”  
“She was fucking trying to seduce the information out him!”  
“This is all his fault!”  
“This is all her fault!”  
“Both of you shut the fuck up now!” Fury roared again. Both agents instantly fell silent. “I don’t fucking care whose fault it was. You were both careless. You failed to finish your mission, failed to obtain any sort of information from the mark, and perhaps most disappointing, you failed to work as a team! You’re both fucking lucky neither of you are dead. You’re also fucking lucky that intel was able to find the hostages in an underground holding cell under the city.” Both agents said nothing. “This was perhaps one of the most unsuccessful missions we have ever conducted and I am very disappointed. But, against my better judgment, you two will continue working as a team.” Both began protesting until a murderous glare from the director shut them both up again. “Eventually you will get it right and when you do, you’re hopefully going to be fucking useful to me. Now, get out of my office.” Both agents scrambled from the room, glaring at each other the whole way.   
The drive back to the apartment was tense to say the least. Neither talked and every time they stopped at a red light, Clint took the opportunity to send a disappointed look in her direction. When they got home, Clint headed for the kitchen to fix himself a cup of coffee while Natasha angrily grabbed her book and stalked out to the balcony. She read through twenty pages before Barton followed her out and wordlessly handed her a cup of tea. They sat in silence for a few minutes, both sipping their drinks, before Clint spoke. “You know what you did was careless, right?”  
“It’s how I work,” she replied dryly, never taking her eyes from the text on the page.  
“You’re sixteen!”  
“I’m also damn good at my job, Barton.” She slammed her book down on the arm of her chair and glared at him. “It’s always worked, every single time. I’ve never failed a mission before and I don’t plan on failing another. Ever.”  
“You’re a spy. You don’t have to resort to that shit. Use your skill. You’re just a kid!”   
“I am not just a kid! You said it yourself. I’m a spy. I’m an agent. I’ll do whatever it takes to complete a mission successfully.”  
Clint scrubbed a hand down his face. She’s going to get us both killed. “Alright fine but you at least have to talk to me. No more leaving me blind. I swear, I’m not going to die for you, Romanoff. We have coms for a reason. Understand?” She simply nodded her head and picked her book back up. With a tired sigh, Clint stood with the intent of a shower and some much needed sleep. “I’m turning in. You should go to bed soon, too.”  
“Sure thing, dad.” Clint just rolled his eyes, glad that the tension was gone.  
# # #  
They were assigned their second mission only four days later. It ended on much better terms than their first, by far. The Rome Mission was to take down a small Anti-Catholic cult that wanted to overthrow the Vatican. After three days of observation, and two days undercover as new cult members, Clint and Natasha were able to shut down the cult and return home by the end of the week. And Natasha learned how to properly use her coms, something both Barton and Coulson were happy about. Fury remained indifferent.  
Over the next few months the pair grew even closer. After Chile, they never failed another mission and their partnership became so strong that Fury started giving them the hardest missions he had, knowing no one could pull them off like they could. By mid-May, they were considered unstoppable by most, if not all SHIELD agents.   
Their rooming situation had changed a bit. The pair had moved out of their small studio apartment into a larger suite-style apartment. Now Natasha not only didn’t have to sleep on the couch, but had her own room. And they had a legitimate kitchen.  
Sometimes, Clint forgot that Natasha was just a kid.   
She was so mature, so dangerous, so beautiful. But, she was only sixteen. Clint thought of her as a walking contradiction. She was one part dangerous, lethal, skilled, terrifying assassin and one part sarcastic (yet somehow still so irritatingly innocent- like the way she licks her spoon after finishing a bite of ice cream and, Jesus Christ, had no idea what she did to him) teenager. And, it was times when she actually acted like a teenager that made him smile.   
When he came out of his room on one of their rare mornings off to find her dancing around the kitchen in her pajamas, listening to the iPod he’d bought her for Christmas and stacking the clean coffee mugs in the cabinet next to the sink, he just about died laughing. It took her tackling him to the ground and a very vicious death threat for him to calm down and breathe so that he could swear not to tell anyone at HQ, so help her God. “You got it, Hot Stuff,” is all he manages though.  
Eventually, he gets sick of having to constantly buy fruit snacks. “You know, one of these days you’re going to have to learn how to cook.” Because honestly, she can’t live off of pizza, take out, fruit snacks, apples, and his specialty pancakes (no matter how delicious said pancakes might be). And really though, he’s surprised she survived on that and SHIELD provided food for the last seven months anyway. So, they go to the grocery store together for the first time and he loads up the carts with Sponge Bob shaped Kraft mac and cheese, Pizza Rolls, Ben and Jerry’s Ice Cream, fresh green beans, coffee, and Simply Lemonade. She has to have a well-rounded diet after all, she’s a growing girl! When they get home he excitedly teaches her how to strain the mac and cheese without scalding herself (even though she does about ten times anyway) and to always use an oven mitt when removing Pizza Rolls from the oven. The thought doesn’t cross his mind that she’s sixteen and has no idea how use basic kitchen appliances beside the toaster. For Christ’s sake she can’t even make coffee. So, he teaches her to make that too. It’s apparent that she’s never cooked a day in her life when he comes home from HQ one day to find that she’s managed to overcook and reduce the Sponge Bobs to Sponge Blobs, and undercook the Pizza Rolls so that they’re still half frozen in the middle. He just laughs and they go out to lunch instead.   
She gets frustrated easily because really, she can single handedly take drug dealers and terrorist leaders but she can’t fucking manage to make mac and cheese without it turning to mush. Clint, for the most part, finds it adorable. It’s like having a ridiculously hilarious little sister. Except not at all seeing as he can’t help but notice the way she definitely doesn’t look the same as she did almost a year ago when he brought her in. She’s curvier now and her voice is sultrier and for fuck’s sake, Barton, she’s sixteen!   
But he can’t help it. She’s always on his mind. She’s his partner and he cares about her. He worries for her in the field and panics when she doesn’t answer his calls over the coms. And even though she’d never admit it he knows that she cares for him too. If she didn’t she would have left by now; planted a bullet in him somewhere and run. (After all there was that incident a few months back with Stinson down in intel. Poor bastard would probably never look at a redhead the same way again.) But it’s not by her not killing him that he knows that she cares. It’s by the sound in her voice when he doesn’t answer over coms, the fact that once she finally masters coffee, she always makes him a cup, just the way she know he likes it (no sugar, two creams). It’s that when they have a free night and he tries to assimilate her into American culture by making her watch the classics, she doesn’t sit all the way across the room from him anymore. Instead, she plops down right next to him on the couch and lets him eat some of her popcorn without breaking his fingers in exchange.   
She’ll probably never admit that she cares about him, whether it is as partners or friends or something more but that’s okay. He still knows.  
And so their “partnership” continues without a hitch. Until Sao Paulo that is.  
# # #  
Sao Paulo, in retrospect, should have been an easy mission. Observe, get in, take down the guards, seduce a confession out of the suspect, and shoot the bastard. Things didn’t really go as planned, though.  
The bastard in questions name is Jason Simon, an American in Brazil building up a human trafficking network. He hadn’t actually been successful yet (for which Natasha was thankful, it took most of the risk of casualties out of the equation) but it Intel was right, and they usually were, he was as close as ever and had to be stopped.   
The mission started out easy enough. They observed for a few days, learning that Simon was working out of an abandoned coffee production company building, is particularly fond of his 1940’s movie star mustache, and carries a freaky looking (at least in Clint’s opinion) walking stick thing. He only had three guards with him whenever he came to the office and was there only at night. A few quips here and there about do you think there’s still any coffee in there, I’m dying here, and they were moving on.   
The building is on the outskirts of a nearly abandoned city anyway so they don’t worry too much as they take down the guards effortlessly and silently. Clint’s stationed on top of the building literally less than three feet away and manages to plant arrows in two of the guards while Natasha takes down the third with a quick twist of the neck. It would have been easier to just let Clint take Simon out from a distance but Phil wants a bit of information from the guy first and so Natasha proceeds.   
She sneaks up on him like she sneaks up on everyone, silently and with the fierce professionalism that only she could manage. The rooms still smells faintly of coffee beans but is now accompanied by an undeniable musty smell too. Simon whips around at the sound of his name and holds his walking stick out in front of him. Clint raises an eyebrow at that, catching the gesture through his scope. “Who are you? What do you want? Guards, guards!” His voice is feeble and pitchy and all Clint can think is yeah, you should be scared, buddy, because really, what kind of person looks to start a human trafficking ring?  
“Calm down, Mr. Simon. Let’s not make this any more difficult than it has to be.” It still amazes Clint that someone as young as Natasha could be so intimidating. Her hips sway casually as she approaches the mark and he sees Simon give her a once over before a confused expression crosses his face. Clint knows that expression; he’s seen it on virtually every mark on every job he and Natasha have worked on for the last year. What is this little girl doing here, they all think. She can’t be dangerous. Every single one of them is wrong.   
“Let’s make a deal,” she says it so innocently, it’s almost laughable. “Answer my question and I’ll answer yours.” The mark nods his head once, looking skeptical. “You first,” Natasha says, approaching him again. “Who are you working with, Mr. Simon?” Anger crosses his face as he comes to the realization that this little girl is on to him. He shoves his hands in his pockets. “Who else are you beginning a human trafficking business with?”   
He man looks half terrified half pissed but he somehow manages the most clichéd thing Clint has ever heard through coms: “I’ll never talk!” Natasha actually rolls her eyes.   
Quick as lightning though, she’s got her gun pulled and aims at his head. “You want to try that again?”   
It all goes downhill from there.   
Something catches Clint’s attention just outside the building. Six black SUVs pull up and at least thirty men jump out of the cars, every single one of them armed to the teeth. He starts shooting off arrows like it’s going out of style. A few of the men turn in his direction and start shooting at him. He knows that the shots ringing out alert Natasha that something’s before he even starts yelling into his coms. “Natasha, get out! There are about thirty guys coming your way.”  
And just like that Simon is swinging his heavy walking stick at her head and she’s on the ground. But, if Simon thinks she’s down for the count, he has another thing coming. He tries to reach for her guns but gets distracted by the sound of many heavy footsteps approaching. Before he can recognize what’s happening she has landed a well-aimed kick to his chest, knocking him to the ground. The rest of guards are at the door now and Natasha is aiming and shooting as fast as she can but the men are all wearing Kevlar and the bullets don’t kill, only land them on the disabled list and eventually they’re up and firing off bullets at her again. She takes shelter behind a column and continues to shoot, hoping this mission will be over soon.   
Clint takes down the five men that were shooting at him in only a matter of minutes. But, if Clint knows one thing, it’s that in his line of work minutes can be the difference between life and death for an agent. So, he switches arrow heads and repels down onto the roof of the building next to him. He hits the ground running and throws the roof door open in a desperate attempt to get to his partner. His lungs start to burn as he runs down who knows how many flights of stairs and his chest aches with worry. He yells into his coms telling Coulson that they need backup or transport or something but he hears no response over his heavy breathing. He makes it to the firefight and can’t spot Natasha, only knows that she’s somewhere in the general direction of where bullets are flying. His chest tightens painfully and he starts firing off arrows, taking down a few men with hits to wherever they aren’t covered in Kevlar. Soon though he’s running out of arrows and is forced to rip them out of the necks and foreheads of the dead, not taking the time to wipe the blood off before reusing them. Most of the men are facing him now and for that he is thankful. The more they’re focused on him the less they’re firing at his partner.  
It doesn’t escape her notice when the spray of bullets decreases drastically and she is momentarily confused. There’s no way she’s hit that many of them. She has just hit another guard in between the eyes when she feels a sharp pain all the way down her back. The draft hits her sliced, now bare skin from where her suit was split open. She turns to see that Simon is awake again and instead of the walking stick she’d seen him carrying for days, he is now carrying a long, thin blade attached to the handle of what used to be the walking stick. She aims a few shots at him but between the pain in her temple from where he hit her earlier and the stinging in her back that she can’t ignore, she isn’t surprised that he dodges them. Another spray of bullets comes from the other direction and she’s forced to focus her attention on that for a moment, managing to hit two of the goons and take them down for good. She’s about a millisecond away from facing Simon again when she feels his blade in her back. It’s off to the left and just under her ribs and he didn’t manage to hit anything important because apart from the searing pain that was the initial stab wound, there is no burning in her abdomen and the pain soon resolves to a dull ache. She’s just able to hit Simon between the eyes before she falls to the floor and cries out.   
Clint hears her cry just as he is finishing off one of the last goons. He hits the final two and is instantly at her side. “Tasha, where does it hurt?” He’s panicked and crazy and has no idea what to do because he has no idea where she’s hurt. “Tasha, where are you hurt!”   
He’s frantic but she just lets out a strangled chuckle and raises an eyebrow. “Tasha? Since when am I Tasha?” He’s freaking out and she’s hurt and how the hell is she joking around at a time like this? She sees the half horrified half concerned look on his face and smiles up at him weakly. “Don’t worry, just a little stab wound. He didn’t hit anything important.” She’s playing it off as nothing but they both know they need to stop the blood flow before she loses too much. She’s getting tired and his hands are at her waist trying to keep her from bleeding out when she sees the movement behind him. Clint notices her reaching for the gun and looks over his shoulder just in time to push Natasha behind him.   
Neither of them wears Kevlar. It’s stupid and reckless and they both know it but Kevlar is uncomfortable and bulky and they hate it. So they never do. Now though, she really wishes that they did. The bullet enters Clint’s chest just as Natasha is pulling the trigger and the guard that wasn’t dead before sure is now. She hears the body hit the floor but she doesn’t care about that. All she cares about is her partner. The traces of tiredness from blood loss are gone and replaced with enough adrenaline to fill every SHIELD agent five times over. She’s screaming his name, and trying to staunch the blood flow, her own injuries forgotten. His eyes flutter and she’s crying now and screaming into her coms unit because for fuck’s sake he’s dying! And where the fuck is that transport? She vaguely hears someone that is definitely not Coulson tell her they can only meet her at the previously determined pick up point. She’s swearing and crying and even in the dark can see the little stains her tears make on the vest of his suit.   
“For fuck’s sake, Barton you cannot die on me! You can’t, remember? You said you wouldn’t die for me. You swore it!” She’s thinking back to after their first mission together when she nearly got herself killed. Back when she didn’t care about him. Back when he was just a partner. Now though, he’s so much more than just a partner. He’s the only person she’s ever trusted and her best friend and dear God, if she loses him the whole world will probably shatter.   
“Clint!” She’s begging and pleading with him not to die. “Clint, please!” She feels a pressure at her hip and opens her tears soaked eyes to see him staring at her sleepily.   
“Get out of here, Tasha. Don’t you dare miss that transport on my account.” It enrages and infuriates and sends a slow burn through her chest knowing that even when he’s lying there bleeding out on the floor of some abandoned building on the outskirts of Sao Paulo, Brazil, his first thought is still her.   
“I swear to God, Barton. If you die I’m going to kick your ass.” Her eyes are still dripping tears and she has to clench her jaw in order to not sound like the weak, weepy heap of teenage girl that she is.   
He smirks up and her and even in the current situation that smirk still sends metaphorical butterflies to her stomach, God dammit. “I’d like to see you try, Hot Stuff.” And then his eyes are closed and his breathing starts to shallow. All traces of anger are gone and replaced with panic. With all of the strength she has left in her body she manages to stand herself up and grab onto his vest, lifting him up and draping him across her shoulder. She’s weak and tired and about to pass out but with a lot a teeth grinding, swearing, begging him not to die, and a fair amount of stumbling, she is able to get him down two flights of stairs and out the front door of the building.   
She sees the gathering of SUVs that are all still running and hastily throws Barton into the passenger seat. She briefly considers running back up to collect his quiver and bow but quickly brushes the notion off. She collapses into the driver’s seat and adjusts it so that she can reach the pedals. Her back stings from the deep slice and stab wound still bleeding and she’s tired, but she takes a deep breath and attempts to move the vehicle. At the last minute she leans over to buckle Clint’s seatbelt, Lord knows he’s going to need it. The skin of her back stretches painfully as she leans over him but she ignores it as best she can. She buckles her own seatbelt and takes another deep breath before slamming down on the gas.   
She’s never driven a car before. It pisses her off because it is hard and she doesn’t know the first thing about how to work a car, only what she’s picked up from watching Clint over the last year. The ride is bumpy and painful in more ways than one. And she is really about to punch something because seriously, she can speak fourteen languages, seduce information out of literally anybody, and carry an extremely muscled (not that she had been looking or anything) fully grown man down two flights of stairs while they were both bleeding to death but she can’t drive a fucking car? Plus, she isn’t entirely sure where she’s going. She speeds through the streets of the city past people, swerving from lane to lane, running red lights, and trying to avoid hitting anything. She can’t help but wonder what kind of snarky comments Clint would be throwing her way if he was conscious. The reminder that her partner is slowly bleeding to death in the passenger seat ignites a new kind of frenzy in her and she steps down on the gas harder. Eventually she screeches to a halt next to a larger than usual quinjet that is waiting for them in a field outside of the city and jumps out, already screaming at anyone who will listen to please, God, help him!  
A group of medics rush to the passenger side and lift Clint onto a stretcher a wheel him into the jet. Another agent comes to her aid from where’s she’s collapsed on the ground next to the SUV. She is hysterical and the agent she doesn’t know is forced to pick her up and carry her onto the jet as well. As soon as she’s securely on the aircraft it takes off towards America, HQ, and home. But, Natasha isn’t in the sleepy sort of haze she usually is on transports after missions. She’s crying and screaming and trying to claw her way towards Clint. Another male agent comes to join the first in attempt to hold her back and eventually they have to sedate her in order to get her to calm down and let them treat her wounds. They inject the sedative into her neck and she is momentarily taken back to the first time she met Clint, when he inadvertently ended her old life and helped her build this new one. She is ripped from her reminiscing by the too calm voices of the medics saying things like heart rate is dropping, and we’re losing him. That sends her into a new wave of panic because there is so much blood and she’s so afraid and that man they’re talking almost nonchalantly about is her best friend, god dammit.   
She is just able to scream his name before the sedative sets in.  
# # #  
When she officially wakes up it is three days later. She’s woken up five times since Sao Paulo and each time they had to sedate her, she’s been so hysterical. This time though, she focuses on staying calm, breathing, and finally manages to ask the question that’s been running through her mind even while unconscious: “Is Clint okay?”  
It’s Coulson standing at her bedside. He takes her hand and sits down and for a second her heart plummets into her stomach. She nearly sobs with relief when Coulson tells her in a soothing voice that he’s fine. He woke up yesterday morning and was asking for her. She feels guilty, he’s the one that was shot and he’s still awake before her, asking for her, worrying about her. She tries to get out of bed but there is a terribly painful pull in her abdomen that sends her tumbling back into the pillows. She pulls up the t-shirt with SHIELD written across the front to see a bright red scar near the bottom of her left ribs. She knows there is a matching one on her back and an even longer scar stretching from her shoulder. She angrily brushes the hair out of her face and crosses her arms with a huff. Coulson smiles at her comfortingly and hands her a hair tie. She quickly pulls her shoulder length red hair into a half-assed pony tail before addressing Coulson again. “When do I get to see him?”  
“You can go see him but he’s not allowed to come see you. He’s on bed rest for a few days. And, the both of you are out of the field for at least a month.” But, Natasha is ignoring him and gritting her teeth against the pain in her abdomen as she gets out of bed. Her legs tremble slightly as she stands and Phil takes her hand, leading her to a wheel chair in the corner of the room. She scrunches her face in distaste before carefully sitting down with the assistance of Coulson.   
Phil wheels her down a few hallways of the SHIELD Medic Wing before stopping outside a room with a large sliding glass door. Inside Clint is sitting up in bed, eating a fruit snack, and watching what looks to be Austin Powers. He’s laughing and the sight warms her heart (but she pushes the sentiment away because that could possibly be the cheesiest thing she’s ever thought and how he’s laughing at a movie as stupid as Austin Powers, she’ll never know).  
Phil slides the door open and Clint catches her eye almost immediately. “Hey!” He’s smiling at her and she gets those damn butterflies again. She ignores them and wheels her chair over next to his bed. She doesn’t say anything but Clint gives her a skeptical look when she braces her arms on the chair and forces herself up. “Careful there. Don’t strain yourself, Hot Stuff.” But, before the whole sentence is out of his mouth she’s hugging him. He looks startled for a moment before returning the hug with fervor. She’s not crying (she suspects all of her tears have dried up in the last few days) but she’s shaking like a leaf in a hurricane, and it quite honestly scares the hell out of him. He looks at Coulson over her shoulder and Phil takes the hint, making his exit. “Hey, Nat, come on. It’s okay. We’re both okay.”   
She wants to hit him, punch him, kick him because he was so stupid to take that damn bullet for her. But she doesn’t. She just presses her face into his neck and hugs him. “You’re such an idiot.” It’s all she says and she’s told him that a thousand times but he laughs anyway and kisses her temple. After a while, she stops shaking.   
They lean back on the bed in comfortable silence and watch the movie she hates but he loves and eat fruit snacks, their food of choice.   
# # #  
When they are finally allowed to go home, it is a relief to say the least. Natasha got out of the medic wing days before Clint did. But, she refused to go back to the apartment, remaining adamant and sleeping (although he knew she wasn’t actually sleeping, only worrying) in the uncomfortable chair next to his hospital bed for five days. So, when they walk through the front door and she immediately curls up on the couch and falls asleep, he is relieved that she’s finally getting rest. He briefly flashes back to their old apartment when she was forced to sleep on the couch for the months until they moved. It’s almost as if that was only yesterday but, he brushes the thought aside and makes himself a cup of coffee. She sleeps until late afternoon and when she finally wakes up, he has Sponge Bob shaped mac and cheese waiting for her with a side order of Ben and Jerry’s Phish Food and a tall glass of Simply Lemonade. After dinner she immediately heads to her room and falls back asleep. He checks on her before he turns in and is pleased to see her sleeping peacefully, curled into a ball and mouth slightly open.   
He takes his time getting ready for bed. He takes a real shower instead of the half-assed ones he’s been allowed to take for the last two weeks while in the med wing. The bathroom they share no longer smells like her shampoo and he can’t help but open the container to take a whiff. It smells like lavender and mint, a smell he knows is always mingled with Tasha’s unique scent. It makes him smile and by the time he steps out of the shower he’s feeling more relaxed that he has in weeks.   
He knows it’s ridiculous. She’s a trained assassin and he’s the one that was shot and Simon’s blade didn’t hit anything vital, but for the love of god, he nearly lost it when he held her on that cement floor as she bled out. He took that bullet for her and he didn’t regret it. Despite what he said after their first mission together about not dying for her, he knew now that he’s step in front a thousand bullets if it meant he never had to see her hurt again.   
As he finally climbs into bed and shuts off the bedside table, he hopes and prays that the nightmare he’s been having since Sao Paulo doesn’t plague him tonight. But, his prayers aren’t answered and before he even registers it flashes of her lying dead on the concrete floor of some abandoned warehouse, lower her casket into the ground, never seeing her again or hearing her laugh flash before his eyes. He’s too immersed in his own nightmares to hear her wake up screaming from hers. But, his eyes open suddenly as him bedroom door creaks open. He can see her peering in from around the door, trying to spot him in the dark. “Nat?” he asks and she finally swings the door open all of the way, looking bashful and terrified. She’s not crying but she’s shaking again. “Come here.” And she does.   
She climbs into bed with him and buries her face in his neck. He holds her close and can feel her heartbeat against his chest. He kisses her hairline as she continues to shake, her fingers fisting in his t-shirt. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.” And he does. All he wants is to protect this girl that has invaded his life, his privacy, and his every waking (and not waking) thought. Her doesn’t cry or shake the way she does but his chest aches something fierce, a pain he knows isn’t because of the bullet he took for her. No, it aches at seeing her in pain. It aches in knowing that she’s here and alive with him, unlike in his dreams and for a moment, he wonders just who is comforting who here.   
Eventually, her breaths start to even out and she falls asleep against his chest, her cheek directly above his newest scar. He can feel the tiny puffs of air she exhales against his throat and it is comforting to him; it shows that she’s alive. And, in knowing that, he is finally able to fall back asleep.  
In the morning when he wakes she is still sprawled over him. Her mouth is open and her fiery hair is splayed across his t-shirt. Her own shirt has risen up to reveal most of her back. He can’t help but run his hands across her smooth skin. She stirs a bit at that, her arms tightening around him and she nuzzles her face into his neck. But, he doesn’t feel her against him, only the deep, puckered scar that now runs along her back and across her spine. He maneuvers his head so that he can see the damage that has been done to her and catches sight of the angry red line that mares the otherwise flawless, white skin of her back. He runs his index finger over the length of the scar again and suddenly red hot rage ignites within his. If the bastard were still alive, Clint would have hunted down Jason Simon just for laying a finger on Natasha. But, fortunately for the world yet unfortunately for Clint’s peace of mind, the fucker is dead and isn’t coming back.  
The sensation of his fingers on her skin is what wakes her. He feels her eyelashes flutter against his skin before he notices the change in her breathing. And, the moment her big, green, sleep heavy eyes are open and fixed on him, ever last ounce of anger and hatred dissipates and all he can do is smile down at her. “Hey.” Her voice is groggy and it barely comes out a whisper.   
He just chuckles, kissing her on the temple and tangling his fingers in her hair before say, “pancakes for breakfast?” She smiles up at him and nods, before pulling down her tank top and rolling out of bed. She pads softly to the bathroom without another word and he groans, scrubbing a hand down his face, trying to ignore the flutters in his chest.   
He forces himself out of bed and into the kitchen to start breakfast. When she emerges from the bathroom her face is washed and her hair is tied back messily in a ponytail. She’s still in her pajamas and the only word Clint can think to describe her at that moment is adorable (which is really ridiculous because he’s seen her seduce information out of everyone from a twenty year old drug dealer to an eighty seven year old weapons dealer).   
She goes to start the coffee as he’s finishing up the pancake batter. Before they know it, the smell of freshly made pancakes and coffee is wafting through the air. She slides his favorite coffee mug across the counter to him (she picked it up for him at a dingy gas station in Courtland, Kansas during her only solo mission earlier that year. It’s purple and has a heart with an arrow through it. It seemed fitting). No sugar, two creams, just the way he likes it.   
She plops down onto the stool on the other side of the bar and watches him intently. She can’t stop staring and the possibility that if she takes her eyes off of him for even a second he could be gone again, scares the hell out of her. So, she continues to stare.   
Clint glances over his shoulder with a smirk. He’s standing over the stove, holding the handle of the pan he’s using to cook with purpose. “Think I can flip it?” She rolls her eyes but says nothing. His cocky grin only gets bigger and before she knows it there is a splat! sound as the pancake hits the floor, followed by a curse from her partner.   
“I’m not cleaning that up.” It comes out snarkier than she meant it to but he’s already scooping more batter into the pan and letting one side brown before taking position again.  
“No, no, I’ve got it this time!” But, he doesn’t. There’s another splat! and when he finally manages to flip one of the pancakes without dropping it there’s already seven on the floor. That only leaves four good pancakes and, with an eye roll, she digs into her two.   
When they’re both finished she points to the mess on the kitchen floor saying, “Clean it up, Barton,” before returning to her room to dress for the day.   
When she comes back out to find him on his hands and knees, wiping at the floor with a wet paper towel, pancake batter smudged across his brow. She nearly can only smile.   
# # #  
In the month following their return from Sao Paulo, she climbs into his bed at night more times than he can count. She doesn’t even hesitate by the door anymore, simply slips in quietly and crawls up next to him. Sometimes he doesn’t even wake up but finds her nestled in his arms in the morning. Occasionally, though, she moves so much in her sleep that she’ll land a painful kick to his shins. But, he can’t find it in him to mind because the look on her face while she’s asleep is more comforting to him than not getting kicked in the shins.  
Over time she comes into his room at night less and less frequently as her nightmares subside. He can’t help but feel just a little bit disappointed but then again, he’s happy she isn’t plagued by images of his death anymore the way he’s still plagued by hers. But, he’ll suffer through his horrid dreams alone if it helps her sleep better at night.  
# # #  
He goes all out for her seventeen birthday. No, really, he outdoes himself, if he may be so bold.   
They come back from HQ early that day. She’s only mildly furious that he forgot to wish her a happy birthday and so she stalks off to her bedroom the minute they walk through the door. Clint can’t help the smug grin that crosses his face when he hears her literally squeal from her room. She comes running out, present hugged to her chest and she launches herself at him and embraces him like it’s the last thing she’ll ever do. “You are the absolute best, Clint Barton, and I just might be in love with you.” He freezes and notices the startled look on her own face at the words that just came out of her mouth. He ignores the tingles in his chest at her words and instead smiles and kisses her cheek and tells her happy birthday.  
The shoes weren’t cheap. The custom made nude pumps with Swarovski crystal heels and red souled Louboutin’s cost him a month’s paycheck. But then again, he’d do anything to see that smile on her face. He’d contemplated long and hard on what to get Tasha for her birthday. He’d thought of about a hundred different options before deciding on the shoes. Clint knew that her favorite part of her job wasn’t going to foreign cities or the adrenaline rush that came on a mission, but going undercover and getting to be someone else. She loved being able to dress up and mess with people’s heads. So, Clint settled for the one thing he knew she would use on the job.  
She slips her feet into the shoes and is almost his height. She hugs him again and say, “Thank you, I love them,” as if he’s given her a new limb instead of a new pair of shoes.   
“But wait, there’s more!” he teases in his most convincing cheesy infomercial product seller voice. He pulls out of the hug and hands her two small, rectangular pieces of glossy paper. She stares at the tickets in confusion.   
Natasha has never been to a concert before. He knows this for a fact. Neither of them have heard of the band, the tickets were inexpensive, and the concert is at a tiny venue downtown but it will be more about the experience than anything else. She wears her new shoes with a pretty flowered dress she had managed to keep after a mission undercover at a high school last year and he can’t help but regret buying those shoes just a little. Her legs look so good and god dammit, he can’t stop staring. Tasha just raising an eyebrow before grabbing his hand and pulling him out to the elevator and down to the car.   
Apart from the casual scan she did of the perimeter looking for possible threat and exit points when they first entered the venue, and the gun he knew was strapped to her thigh under her dress that she had somehow managed to slip past security (he really had no idea how she did that), the experience was normal. She laughed, danced, and even got that little gleam in her eye when the lead singer caught and held her gaze. (Clint chose to ignore the tiny tightening of his chest at that. She was a kid, for god’s sake. He wasn’t jealous.) The music was just alright in his opinion but Natasha seemed to enjoy it as she danced around and attempted to lose herself in the sea of people standing in front of the stage. She didn’t like crowds (they made it too easy to miss a threat when one was lurking) and every once in a while she would glance around the room after realizing she’d let her guard down. Eventually though, she manages to forget all about her deranged past and only slightly messed up present and pull Clint from his position against the wall to come dance with her. He shook his head ‘no’ at first but then she pouted and stuck out her full lower lip and gave him her best puppy dog eyes and pulled the “But it’s my birthday, Clint,” below the belt cheap shot bullshit and before he knew it they were dancing. They dance and laugh and grind against each other and occasionally she plants random kisses on his chest and he’s forced to hold his breath and calm the fuck down, Barton. She smirks up at him devilishly and he just grins back, pulling her into a hug that might hurt someone else, but not her. Never her. He tries to ignore the longing he sees in her eyes that is no doubt reflected in his own.  
When they finally get home, Natasha flicks off her new shoes (because despite how cute they are they still kill her feet) and plops down on the couch. Clint heads off towards the kitchen and returns with a familiar white box with a few lit candles poking out the top. It’s the same cake as last year, Sander’s Chocolate Bumpy Cake and she can’t help but grin up at him from her seat on the couch. He sits down next to her and places the box in her lap. He sings her happy birthday in his deep, sexy voice that sends tingles down her spine. Then, he instructs her to make a wish and she does, blowing out all of the candles in one try. Clint hands her a fork and they eat the cake right out of the box. When she finally feels like she’s about to explode, she licks her fork clean and stands from the couch. She leans over him and plants a kiss right at the corner of his mouth, leaving him wanting more but never willing to admit it. “Thanks, Clint.” It comes out a whisper when she didn’t mean it to. “This was the best birthday ever.” And before she does something to embarrass herself, she forces herself towards her room to get ready for bed, the remnants of her wish still floating in the air.  
Please don’t ever have him leave me. That’s my wish.  
# # #  
The next day they have off for whatever reason. Maybe Coulson figures they’d both be too hung over after the concert (even though neither of them drank) to be of any use to him, but she doesn’t ask. Instead, Clint lets her sleep in and then at eleven they’re out the door and headed for the diner down the street for breakfast. They order something other than pancakes for a change and the waitress flirts with Clint shamelessly. Natasha attempts to ignore the jealously that surges through her. It’s a good thing they’re in public because, little does Lydia the Waitress know, Natasha can kill her seven different ways just with the bendy straw she’s using to drink her apple juice, not to mention the knife, fork, and other sharp objects that clutter the table. Clint seems to sense her annoyance because he grabs Natasha’s hand and politely tells the waitress that it’s her birthday. Lydia looks excited and runs off, only to return with a princess hat made of aluminum foil that she forcefully shoves on Natasha’s head before singing happy birthday horribly off key. Natasha is embarrassed now because the other diners are look at her and Clint is snickering and snapping pictures with his camera phone. Her cheeks flood red and if looks could kill Barton would be a sticky pile of blood on the floor from the daggers she’s shooting his way. “I swear to God, Barton. If those pictures end up with anyone at SHIELD you’ll never be able to walk properly, let alone have sex ever again. Got it?” Clint doesn’t mention that he hasn’t had sex since before she walked into his life. She doesn’t need to know that so instead he just nods and stifles his laughter into his napkin.  
When they get in the car to drive back to the apartment, Tasha’s aluminum foil hat thrown haphazardly in the back seat, Clint heads in the opposite direction. “Clint, where are you going? Home is the other way.” She sounds confused but not at all worried. It soothes him to know that she trusts him to take her anywhere, even without warning.   
“Just a little road trip, Nat. Sit back, relax and enjoy the ride.” She doesn’t say anything but instead flicks on the radio and fiddles with the channels for a minute. Once she’s satisfied with the station she leans her head back against the seat and dozes off. She’s not sure how long they’ve been driving before she feels the car pull over to the side of the road. She opens her eyes and is as alert as if she hadn’t been asleep for who knows how long.   
“Where are we?” She stares out the window in wonder at the fields filled with nothing but cows and horses on either side of her. There isn’t a single car on the roads around here.  
“Rural New York.” He clicks off his seat belt and gets out of the car. He walks to her side and pulls her out before she can protest. “Get in the driver seat, Hot Stuff. You’re learning to drive today.” She freezes for a moment remembering the last time she was behind the wheel of a car. She shakes the thoughts of blood and death from her head before giving Clint a look that says you asked for this, and climbing into the driver seat. “Now, despite what I hear about you managing to drive us half way across Sao Paulo while bleeding out and not killing a single thing, I still don’t trust you with my baby,” he rubs his hand along the dashboard affectionately before continuing. “Which is why we’re out here. There’s nothing to hit.”  
Natasha looks hesitant as she slides the seat belt into the lock and adjusting the seat so that she could reach the pedals. “Are you sure about this, Clint?” She sure isn’t.  
Clint nods. “You’re going to have to learn to drive some time, Nat. So, happy birthday, don’t wreck my car.” He’s trying to lighten the mood but only succeeds in making her more nervous. She’s half convinced the reason she didn’t hit anything in Brazil was due to the crazy adrenaline rush that had flooded her system when Clint was shot. But, she doesn’t mention that.   
Clint snaps his seat belt into place and points at the rearview mirror. “First things first, always wear a seat belt and adjust your mirrors.” She reaches up to fix the mirrors so that she can see properly. “Now, put her in drive.” She does as she’s told and then waits. Clint looks at her expectantly before instructing again. “Step down on the gas.” She stomps on the gas and the car goes zooming forward for a moment before she hits the break and nearly gives herself a concussion on the steering wheel. Clint’s hand is braced against the dashboard and he looks at her with a mixture of disbelief and amazement. “And by that I meant ease down on the gas.” She tries it again and manages not to hurt anyone this time. “There, that’s better.”  
The driving lesson goes…worse than expected. At least for Clint. She’s an absolutely horrid driver. She speeds up when going around corners and steps on the brake so hard every time she reaches a stop sign, Clint is pretty sure he’s pulled a muscle in his neck. She always forgets to use her blinker and check her blind spot before switching lanes. But, Natasha feels pretty smug by the end of the day, not having hit a single thing in the three hours they’re been at it (even though there is nothing to hit). She grins at him in self-proclaimed victory as if she’s suddenly the best driver ever. “That wasn’t so hard.” Clint just groans and rubs the bridge of his nose. “Can I drive home?”  
He can’t help but laugh out loud at that. “Nice try, Hot Stuff. Get out of the car.”  
Natasha surprises him by placing another kiss on the corner of his mouth. He has no idea why she’s being so affectionate towards him lately but he can’t seem to bring himself to mind.  
# # #  
The sexual tension between the two SHIELD assassins over the next however many months is nearly palpable. If fact, Clint is pretty sure that Coulson nearly had a heart attack when he walked in to find Natasha straddling him in the gym after a particularly grueling work out. Poor guy.  
The scary part is, though, that it’s almost a game between the two of them. Who can push who further? Neither will admit that they get a certain sick sort of thrill out of teasing the other but, okay. Natasha totally doesn’t crawl into Clint’s bed for reasons that have nothing to do with nightmares but really just to drape her body across his and succeed in driving him crazy. And Clint would never dream of walking around the apartment in just a towel after him morning showers just to see her get flustered and retreat to her room. Oh no, never in a million years.   
Eventually, it escalates to “accidently” touching and brushing up against each other whatever chance they can get. Her fingers just barely graze his ass as she walks next to him in the corridors of HQ. She ignores the stiffening in his shoulders every time. His lips will hardly brush the shell of her ear as he comes up behind her to type over her shoulders as she sits at the computer. He attempts to ignore the shudder that runs through her when he does.   
They like to tease each other. That’s it, really. Fine, she might press up ultra-close to his body when she climbs into his bed and likes how he fits against her. She’ll never say anything though. And sure, he might occasionally catch a glimpse down her shirt and like what he sees. But, he’ll never act on his feelings. Why? Because despite everything they’ve been through together during their partnership, (from the moment he stuck her with that needle two years ago until now) he’s still too old for her. She’s a kid. And he might love her but he’ll never take advantage of her like that. If that means he has to suffer through the fantasies his brain thinks up at night and never be able to act out those fantasies, then so be it. Stand your ground, Barton. He repeats that over and over in his head every time he takes notice of her curves or gets jealous of the mark she’s flirting with, or she brushes up against him in the hallway just a little too close. Stand your ground. And he does for the most part.  
That is, until Tijuana.   
# # #  
In retrospect, Tijuana wasn’t actually that bad. No one was seriously injured and the mission ended up successful. It just scared the living shit out of Clint.   
He really wasn’t even needed for the mission. It was an easy reconnaissance in and out type of job and Clint totally could have stayed home, sat around, drinking coffee (but because of someone, now that she knew how to make it just the way he likes, whenever he does it himself it just tastes off). But, ever since Fury had sent Tasha on a solo mission in February that had gone to shit so badly she literally couldn’t stand for a week, he never let her go on missions alone, anymore.   
So, there he was trying to remain inconspicuous drinking iced tea (he hated the stuff) at an outdoor café. He’d occasionally look up from the Spanish newspaper he was pretending to read to check on her. They had no coms, the mission was supposed to be that simple but every time the mark stepped just a little too close to Natasha, Clint’s hand would automatically hover over the gun at his hip. He missed his bow but unfortunately it was hard to conceal and a bit too memorable. So, he settled for a regular semi-automatic and a location on the ground.   
Clint noticed the waitress giving him strange looks as she refilled his glass. Probably because he’d been staring across the street at Natasha and the mark for too long. He glanced down at his newspaper again, trying to focus on the words instead of the bad feeling pooling in his gut that something was wrong. Everything’s fine. Calm down. It’s an easy mission. He converts the Spanish news article into English and reads on. Apparently, the GDP was steadily increasing this year. Good for Mexico.   
The sound of running feet catches Clint’s attention and he looks up from the paper again. He notices that many of the civilians are hastily moving in opposite directions of his partner and her mark. The look on the mark’s face looks calm and collected but, even though her back is to him, he can tell from Natasha’s posture that she is tense. He is about to make his way over and play the “Oh, there you are honey” kiss on the cheek move to see what is going on, but just then Natasha turns away from the mark and heads in Clint’s direction. Her expression is a neutral one, not giving the impression that anything is wrong. So, he glances away again and takes a sip of the too sweet iced tea.   
And, it’s in that precise moment when the explosion goes off. He feels the heat before he hears the noise and he has spilled his iced tea and is halfway across the street within seconds. The screams of scared pedestrians are all around him but he doesn’t really care. He can’t see Tasha anywhere over the cloud of smoke and his chest constricts and he panics. He covers his mouth to protect himself from the smoke and forces himself to assess the situation. The explosion wasn’t huge; big enough that he could feel the heat of it from across the street but not big enough to cause too much damage. It must have been a low caliber hand grenade. Not bad, he’s survived worse. But, right now he isn’t thinking about himself. All he can think about is Tasha. Where is Tasha? He can’t breathe and he knows it has nothing to do with the smoke and everything to do with the panic. The thought of almost losing her again is so painful it nearly sends him to the ground. But, he pushes on through the thick smoke is search of his girl.   
He doesn’t have much luck. He can’t see a damn thing. He nearly passes out from relief when she comes half limping half running his way. Before she can protest she’s in his arms and he’s kissing her face and oh god, he’s so relieved. He can’t hear much over the screams of the general population and the sirens heading their way but he does know that she’s yelling. “I’m fine. It’s fine, Clint. I’m fine. But, we have to get out of here. We have to get out of here now!” She’s tugging on his hand and pulling him with her. She’s limping and her clothes are torn in places and there’s yelling everywhere and somehow, all he can manage to think is Thank God.  
About an hour later they can see the sun setting through the tiny window in the top corner of the gas station bathroom on the outskirts of Tijuana. Clint is abnormally silent as he works over her.   
She’s fine. Really, she is. And for Clint, the panic has melted away to reveal a toasty new layer of fucking anger. But, he doesn’t want to talk about it. God, he just wants to forget about the sheer panic and the nightmares he knows will come for him in the middle of the night, flashing images of her bleeding out, her dead, her in a casket. No, he doesn’t want to think about it. So, he broods silently and dabs at the burn on her right cheek.   
The silence might be fine for him but it’s killing her. After all, out of the two of them he’s the one that always has something to say. It gets to the point where the silence is so overwhelming she’s willing to say anything just to get him to say something. So, she does. “Well, I got the information.” He says nothing. Natasha has to hold in an annoyed growl. He’ clearly ignoring her but she lets it go for a few more minutes. When the silence gets the better of her once again, she simply can’t help herself. “Did you hear me? I got the information.”  
“I don’t care about the information, Natasha.” Oh, shit. Now, she knows something is wrong. If his furious tone yet seemingly calm demeanor didn’t tip her off, the use of her full name definitely did. He hasn’t called her Natasha in months. Now, it’s always Tasha or Tash or Nat or Hot Stuff or anything that isn’t her full name. She’s honestly so surprised the word slips out before she even realizes she’s opened her mouth.  
“What?”  
“I said I don’t care about the fucking information.” He’s stopped dabbing the gash above her forehead with rubbing alcohol and is now gripping the edge of the sink she’s sitting on so tightly she thinks he just might break it.   
Annoyed disbelief flashes through her. “You don’t care about the mission, Barton?” She’s just a little bit pissed. Because seriously, she’s the one that just got blown up and he’s the one acting like his bike got ran over by a suburban soccer mom’s minivan.   
“No.” She grits her teeth. “No, I don’t care about the mission, Natasha. I care about you.” He’s back to calm and collected and dabbing at her forehead again. “And you almost got killed back there. So, pardon my bad mood.” He starts trying to pick little pieces of debris out of where they’ve imbedded themselves in the skin of her torso but the tattered holes in her shirt just keep getting in the way. With a disgruntled sigh he backs away and Natasha wordlessly slips her shirt over her head, tossing it on the floor. He continues for a moment, pulling little bits of metal and glass from her ribs silently.  
Clint is all business as he pushes her bra up a bit so that he can snag a particularly nasty shard of glass from the underside of her breast. That one hurts a bit and she grunts in discomfort. The muscles in Clint’s jaw clench and that sure doesn’t escape her notice. All she can think is if he doesn’t stop that soon he’s going to grind his teeth to dust. He must have been so far into his own head that he’s probably approaching the equivalent of Narnia territory. And really, she is sitting her without a shirt on, breasts exposed and he hasn’t even taken notice (like she kind of hoped he would). And despite her annoyance, it worries her too. Because with all of the flirting and taunting and touching and teasing they’ve been doing over the last year, he’s making it awfully hard for her to win this game. But, all joking aside she knows she has to get him out of his head. “Are you alright, Clint?” The words are stupid and she wants to swallow them back up the moment they escape her because they both know that whenever she’s even remotely hurt, the last thing Clint wants to think about it himself.   
And before she even knows what’s happening he’s not so silent anymore. He’s yelling and angry and just a little bit terrifying. “That was so stupid, Natasha! So incredibly stupid! How could this have happened? It was such an easy mission, how could we have been so careless? God dammit!”  
She tries to remain calm but it’s like his anger is feeding her and she can’t help but yell back. “This wasn’t my fucking fault, Clint! How was I supposed to see that grenade coming, huh? How?”  
“I know it wasn’t your fucking fault. But, for fuck’s sake how many times do I have to almost lose you? That was too fucking close!” He punches the mirror behind her and it shatters into the sink. She isn’t afraid of him; she knows he would never hurt her. But, he keeps hitting the wall and his knuckles start to bleed and that’s scary.   
“Clint, stop!” He stops punching the wall long enough to grab her by the thighs and shove her up against the nearest wall. Natasha is shocked and the back of her head nearly makes contact with the bricks but nonetheless, she can’t help but notice the throbbing ache between her thighs that she’s become so familiar with over the last year.   
She can’t see his eyes but his voice is haunted when he says, “You don’t get to leave me, Tasha. Not now and not ever.” He’s kissing her neck and she can hear the tears in his voice and if she wasn’t half blissed out at the sensation she’d probably be trying comfort him. But, his lips on her neck are far too distracting so she just stays where she is. “And I’m never going to leave you either, understand?”   
For a moment she flashes back to her last birthday wish. Please don’t ever have him leave me. This is my wish. She can’t speak, still feeling his lips on her skin even though he’s pulled away and is looking in her eyes. Instead, she simply nods and kisses the side of his mouth like she’s done so many times in the past year. “Good,” he says simply, setting her back down on the sink and starts picking shards of glass from her side as if nothing ever happened. “Good.”  
# # #  
After Tijuana things changed. Natasha didn’t like change. Another thing Natasha didn’t like? An overprotective Clint Barton. No, she wasn’t a fan of that at all.   
It wasn’t so much that it was so sudden. More so that it was so beyond unnecessary she sometimes had to resist the urge to punch him really hard. With a knife. Because really? Is it really necessary to literally growl at the agents that ogle her as she walks down the halls? And seriously? Is it productive to shoot down marks she’s trying to seduce information out of the moment they put their hands on her? And who the fuck told him it was alright to argue with Coulson and Fury about whether a mission in too dangerous for her! It probably isn’t doing good things for her blood pressure, that’s for sure. It makes her head pound and her blood boil and is he fucking kidding?   
She can take care of herself. She knows it. He knows it. Coulson, Fury, Hill, fuck, even Matthews down in logistics knows it! And they’ve never even met! She made her first kill at the measly age of eight. Only God and whoever the hell updates her file after every mission knows how many more men at least twice her size she’s taken down.   
It’s been three months since Tijuana and Natasha had hoped that Clint had gotten over his little break down since then. But, based off of the number of marks Clint has “accidently” shot in the forehead in the last ninety days (Nine men, if she counts the one in Barcelona, even if she did need the help on that one, not she’d ever admit it), he’s really not over this overprotective “You don’t get to leave me!” madness. Which pisses her off.   
They’re in Croatia attempting to bring in a well-known weapons dealer by the name of Petar Josip. Fury wants them to bring him in rather than kill him and Natasha is feeling just the tiniest bit anxious. After all, the man is decently attractive and highly full of himself and Natasha knows that he thinks the night is going to end much differently than it actually is. (Hopefully, if Barton cooperates, Josip will end up in a SHIELD holding cell.)   
Natasha has to remind herself to remain casual when she feels Josip caress her back through the flowing material of her dress. She sends a warning glare through the window of the bar out to her partner. Even though it’s dark, she knows he can see her don’t you dare fuck this up look through his scope. Up until now, she and her mark had been having a seemingly pleasant conversation in Croatian about which local drinks could be used as aphrodisiacs. Josip stands from his bar stool and moves in closer, caressing her cheek. Out of the corner of her eye Natasha sees a brief flash of red against her glass. She would know that red light anywhere. It’s been taking out marks for her for two years. It’s the red light on the end of Clint’s bow used to perfect his aim. She stiffens.   
She figures it’s safe to scold him through the coms because chances are he’s not going to listen to her anyway. And, if he does, the mark probably won’t even know what she’s saying anyway. So, hopefully before Clint can spring into action and ‘save the day’, she’s growling into her coms unit, “I swear to fucking God, Barton, if you fire even one arrow you will be so sorry-”   
But it’s already too late. Josip slumps over, an arrow sticking straight from the back of his skull. “Are you fucking kidding me?” she mutters under her breath before pushing the mark’s limp body off of her shoulder and screaming at the top of her lungs, trying to remain in character. The other bar patrons take notice to her cries and all start yelling and running in a mad panic. Natasha points and screams for what she deems an appropriate amount of time before running from the bar, looking terrified. Once she’s about a block away she drops the act and gnashes her teeth together.   
She’s pissed. So pissed that ‘pissed’ doesn’t even do what she’s feeling justice. She hears a thump behind her a whirls around to send a murderous glare at who she knows to be her partner. The looks she’s giving him is so deadly it literally hurts her face but Clint doesn’t seem to notice it. He just adjusts his quiver over his shoulder and gives her a nonchalant look. “Ready to go home?”   
She doesn’t yell, doesn’t scream, doesn’t scold him like she really, really wants to. She knows that he’ll get more than an earful from both Fury and Coulson when they get back to HQ for debriefing. Instead, she grumbles a “whatever” and stalks off in the opposite direction in a true teenage fashion.   
Once they reach transport, Coulson is there waiting for them. He’s standing with his arms folded across his chest and looking more pissed and disappointed than Natasha has ever seen him. “Care to explain yourself, Agent Barton?” Clint just brushes past him and straps himself into the seat in the very back corner of the quinjet. Coulson shakes his head before looking to Natasha. She sends him a sympathetic look before moving to buckle herself in on the opposite side of the jet from Clint. Coulson scrubs a hand down his face before informing the pilot they are prepared for takeoff and strapping himself in next to Natasha. And so she sits there next to her handler and watches her partner read the same copy of Archery Monthly she’s pretty sure he’s been reading on every transport home for the last three months.   
The flight home is silent.  
# # #  
The debriefing is decidedly not silent.   
Fury is there which is rare. Normally it’s just the two of them and Phil but, Natasha knew Clint was in deep shit the moment they stepped into the board room to see a furiously calm Nick Fury. Coulson sits quietly in the corner, reading through paperwork and trying to ignore the vicious threats coming from the director’s mouth. Natasha, though, is all ears. “This is the tenth mission you’ve fucked up in the last three months, Barton! Are you looking to get a new job? Because I can just fucking fire you and save myself a lot of trouble and a lot of motherfucking missions!”  
The yelling has been going on for the better part of two hours and Natasha can say, without a doubt that this had been the longest debriefing ever. And Fury hadn’t even acknowledged her. Clint, on the other hand, had barely even acknowledged Fury. He’s been picking at a callous on his index finger for the last forty five minutes, thoroughly succeeding in pissing off the director. “Did you hear me, Barton? Are you looking to get motherfucking fired!”   
“No!” Clint is up out of his seat so fast that it flies back and hits the wall, leaving a scuff in the plain beige paint. The motion was so fast, it actually managed to surprise Natasha, not to mention startle the shit out of Coulson. “No, I’m not looking to get fired, sir! I’m looking for you to send us on missions that aren’t sure to get us killed!”  
“This was a simple mission, Barton. Grab Josip, bring him back to headquarters. How hard is that?” Fury’s voice is eerily calm now. Clint is still yelling though.  
“Yeah, and what about the others, huh? Were they just simple missions too? What about Tijuana? What about London? What about motherfucking Sao Paulo? Were those all just simple missions? Because as I recall, director, either one of both of us was nearly killed in all three of those cities!”  
At this Natasha decided to step in. “It’s an occupational hazard, Clint. You know that.”   
He swung around, a finger instantly in her face as if he was a parent trying to discipline a misbehaving teenager. “No you, you don’t even get to talk! You’re so fucking careless out there, Natasha, and one of these days you’re going to end up dead because of it!”  
“I’m going to end up dead anyway, Clint!” She’s standing now. She’s in his face and seething. “No one lives forever, not even us!” She’s so angry she can hardly breathe. “And I’m being careless? Last I checked, I wasn’t the one shooting marks out of the sky like fucking clay birdies, Barton!”  
“I’m doing my job!”  
“No, you’re being impulsive and stupid, and if one of us is going to end up dead, it’s not going to be me!”   
She’s walking out of the room before he or either of her superiors can stop her. Clint stares after her for a moment before deflating. He runs a tired hand through his hair before facing Fury. “I’m sorry about the mission, Director. It won’t happen again.”  
“You’re damn fucking straight it won’t happen again. You know why? Because if it does you’ll be out on the street or back to the circus, Barton; and I’ll deport Little Miss Assassin back to Russia, you got it?” Clint knew that Fury would never have Natasha deported, she was too valuable to SHIELD. But, the threat sure registered to him and he simply nodded his head. “Good. Now get the fuck out of my sight, Barton.”   
Without a word Clint jogged from the room in an attempt to locate his partner. After twenty minutes of searching he found her leaning against their car in the parking garage. She stood with her back to him, arms crossed, and head bowed in thought but Clint knew that she knew he was there. “What you said to Fury back there was stupid.” She didn’t sound mad, just tired.  
“I know,” he replied, running his hand through his hair again. “I’m sorry.”  
“You don’t get to give him orders and you sure as hell don’t get to give me orders.” She whirled around to face him but her eyes weren’t angry. They looked drained and exhausted and like she could use a nice fourteen hour nap. Clint was hit by a sudden surge of guilt. He was stressed. He worried about her because he cared but he didn’t even realize how by worrying about her and doing stupid things to keep her safe, he worried her. Her stress was visible in the dark shadows under her eyes. He approached her and cupped her chin, hoping to express his remorse without words. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to find them. Natasha reached up and pulled his hand away from her face, lacing her fingers with her own. “Clint, I know you’re scared but you’ve got to stop doing this. You’ve got to stop making stupid, impulsive decisions that jeopardize missions. Failed missions are more dangerous than the worst successful ones. You know that.”   
“I...I just don’t want you to get hurt.” His voice wavered but he didn’t cry. He knew emotions like that would scare her off and that was the last thing he wanted. “You’re down there all by yourself and I’m up high, so far away. What if something happened?”  
“Come on, Clint. You know that I can take care of myself.” She smirked at him. “How many times have I taken you down?” He gave her a weak smile. “Then again, you are getting pretty old,” she joked, poking him in the side. Clint rolled his eyes before tackling her into a bear hug, knowing he was forgiven. She laughed her terrible snorting laugh for a minute before finally settling down, laying her head back on the concrete floor. “But, seriously, you’ve got to take it easy on the random assassinations. I really don’t feel like getting deported. It would be too much work sneaking back in to kick your ass.”  
“You heard that?” he asked, resting his chin on her sternum. She nodded. “You know that even if Fury got rid of me Coulson would never let him get rid of you.”  
“I know. But you really need to calm down. I’ll be fine. Really.” Clint nodded before climbing off of her and extending a hand to help her up. She took his hand and he hauled her off the floor, kissing her forehead.   
“Get in, Hot Stuff. You’re driving.” He handed her the keys. “You need to work on those left turns.”  
# # #  
After that things returned to normal for a while. Natasha continued to touch, tease, and walk around in as inappropriate of clothing as she had as often as she could to try and get Clint to reach his limit and finally do something about the ridiculous amount of attraction neither of them would verbalize. Clint continued to complain about how her Pizza Rolls still ended up mostly frozen whenever she tried to make them. Aside from that though, he didn’t seem to do much of anything. He didn’t walk around with just a towel on after his showers, he didn’t pin her to the ground with this body while they sparred, and he didn’t touch her more often that was strictly necessary. And in doing that, he was succeeding in doing the exact opposite of which he tried. He was driving her mad.   
But, while Natasha was struggling to control her desires, Clint was struggling to get her comment from two months prior out of his head. Then again, you are getting kind of old. Clint knew he wasn’t old. He was only twenty-nine. He’d had a birthday a few months back but he wasn’t about to go and have a break down because he was one year closer to thirty. He was in the best shape of his life, worked with plenty of beautiful women, and he was, if he could be so bold, a badass. No, Clint knew he wasn’t old. But, God, was he old for her.  
She was young. So, so, so young. It wasn’t fair. She was young and perfect and beautiful and the things he often thought about her were not only inappropriate but also illegal, if he put them into action. He wouldn’t though. He couldn’t. No. She was his partner. His friend. He wasn’t going to fuck this up just because he literally thought about nothing but her. No. No.  
He was too old for her and that was that. End of discussion.  
Well, until one day in late August, that is. They had arrived at HQ and immediately gone their separate ways. Tasha headed off to train and Clint claimed he needed to speak to Coulson. They agreed to meet for a sparring session in a half hour. Clint hastily made his way down to Coulson’s office on sublevel two. His office was all the way on the other side of the building from the gym and Clint had to hurry. When he finally arrived, he stepped into his handler’s office with a dopey smile on his face. “Good morning, Coulson. Today’s the big day!”  
Coulson gave Clint a skeptical look before handing him a plain white envelope. “Are you sure she’s ready for this, Barton? You know that Fury won’t be very happy if something goes wrong.”  
“Relax, Phil! She’ll be fine. She learned from the best after all.”  
Another skeptical look from the handler. “You know, she should really be evaluated by a-”  
“Yeah, okay, Coulson!” Clint was already halfway out the door. “You’re the best. Thanks, bye!” And with that, he was off to the gym. Coulson sat in his office desk, a combination of amusement, concern, and annoyance playing in his mind. Mostly amusement, though.   
When Clint reached the gym he quickly changed into his training clothes and shoved the envelope from Phil in his pocket. Natasha was the only person in Gym Number 22A, their usual. She stood in the corner, bouncing from foot to foot, beating the shit out a punching bag. Her back was to him and she had her headphones in but Clint knew she knew he was there. She was expecting him. However, hoping luck was on his side today, Clint snuck up behind her and wrapped his arms firmly around her, trapping her own arms to her sides. Within an instant she had her leg twisted around one of his and he was face first to the ground, a very annoyed Natasha on his back. “Are you trying to get punched, Barton?”  
“Hey, Tasha,” he groaned with a face full of mat.   
“What the hell was that?” she growled, digging her fingers into a pulse point just enough to hurt.  
“I wanted to surprise you!” He was laughing now despite the fact that he had one hundred and twenty pounds of teenage assassin on top him. “Look in my right pocket.” He could tell by the annoyed sound she made that she was rolling her eyes but, she did as told, reaching into his front right pocket. Clint ignored the tingles that shot up his leg. He heard Natasha rip open the plain white envelope and gasp. In her hands, he knew, lay a driver’s license to replace the fake (a very good fake, though) one he knew she’d threatened Callahan down in Identification Specialization to make her months ago.   
Over the last few months, Clint and Natasha had spent many non-work related (and some when they were supposed to be working, don’t tell Coulson) improving her driving skills. About a week ago he had asked Coulson and the handler said he’d take care of it. After all, they didn’t want another Sao Paulo any time soon. “Now, you can get rid of the fake you think I don’t know about.” He tried to sound scolding but he was slightly breathless with Tasha crushing his lungs. He felt Natasha shrug above him before he was suddenly on his back, face up at her. Natasha sat cross legged on his chest and stared lovingly at her license. The photo ID was the picture that was in her SHIELD file.   
“How did you get Coulson to do it?” she asked whimsically.  
“He just did it. Didn’t ask any questions. Hey, Hot Stuff? Can you get off? I can’t breathe here.” Natasha gracefully rolled off of him and sat cross legged next to him instead. Clint sat up and caught his breath. “Now, let’s get a few things straight here, missy.” Natasha rolled her eyes at his annoying I’m in charge of you voice. “No driving past midnight unless it is required for a mission. No breaking any traffic laws. And for the love of God, if you crash my car, I will kick your ass. Got it?” He tried to catch her eye but she was still staring at the little plastic card in her hand.   
Clint understood. After years and years of having next to no time to be a kid, she finally had something that symbolized a normal life. Normal teenagers got their licenses at sixteen. Well, at sixteen she got an arrow to the shoulder, an American citizenship, and a new job, killing for new people. She deserved something that made her just a little bit normal.   
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, don’t crash the car. Got it.” She looked up from the card in her hand and stared at him with some emotion he’d never seen on her before. Something he couldn’t put a name on. Before he could register it she had her arms around his neck and was hugging him like it was the last thing she’d ever do. After a minute she pulled back, grabbed onto his face, and looked him dead in the eye. “Thank you, Clint.” He only nodded. He started when she unexpectedly kissed him on the lips as quick as lightning. He hadn’t even fully registered what had happened before she was at the door, car keys snagged from his pocket in hand.   
Clint rolled his eyes and smiled a goofy smile before yelling after her. “I mean it, Romanoff. You crash my car and you’re dead meat!”   
Her snorting laughter was the only response he got.   
# # #  
They remember Budapest very differently.   
She remembers noise. Noise everywhere. There is noise in the indoor market place, people haggling for prices, noise as the civilians scream when Dominik Zsolt pulls a gun on her, and noise when the explosion hits.   
He remembers silence. Absolute silence. Silence as he waits on the roof of building a block away, silence over the coms unit, and silence when he wakes up in the medic wing.   
Yes, they remember Budapest very differently.   
They must have known she was coming because the minute she approaches Zsolt, a powerful nuclear weapons manufacturer, he’s got a gun trained on her and about thirty other cart owners are training weapons on her as well.   
Natasha slides the pistol in her hands along the ground to Zsolt’s feet. He takes the gun and Natasha raises her hands in the air. If Clint was closer, she wouldn’t be worried. But, due to the complex architectural structures in Budapest, he was forced to station himself farther away than usual. Now, she’s practically on her own. The place is mostly empty now so she doesn’t have to worry about civilians. Glass shatters from above and an arrow plants itself firmly in the Zsolt’s eye socket. All hell breaks loose as the cart merchants open fire on her. She’s wearing Kevlar this mission. Thank God, she thinks as she dodges bullets. The noises of ricocheting bullets and shouting Hungarians pulls her attention in a hundred different directions. A hundred different directions until she hears the explosion from outside, not too far in the distance. Her blood runs cold.   
Noise.   
Clint can’t hear a damn thing. The mission might be going to shit. He had a bad feeling. And despite his promises to Tasha a few months back about taking it easy on the worrying, he’s still fucking worried. They’d been in Budapest a week already, learning the marks patterns and who his coworkers were. This should be easy, just take the bastard down. But, nothing ever comes easy on these missions. So, he sits up on the roof of some tall ass building in Budapest, Hungary and searches through his scope, nothing but his thoughts to keep him company. Suddenly there is static over the coms and dead silence. He can’t hear Natasha’s breath through the tiny speaker anymore and that worries him more than ever. He searches through his scope and spot Natasha, hands raised as if in surrender. What the fuck happened? is his last though before he looses and arrow and something behind him explodes.   
Silence.  
# # #  
He’s deaf.   
Not completely so, only mostly deaf.   
Natasha cries when they tell her; huge, heaving sobs that hurt her belly and make her chest ache. It’s the first time since Sao Paulo she’s let anyone see her cry. She knows it’s not the end of the world. But, she also knows that, when she finally plucks up the courage (it’s pathetic really. She faces near death experiences multiple times a week but she’s so afraid of this) to tell him that she loves him, he’ll never hear her.   
Clint is simply stunned. He wakes up to silence and a sleeping Natasha at his bedside. He’s got two broken ribs and bandaged ears. He’s ninety percent deaf in both. He doesn’t wake Natasha, simply presses the call button. The doctor that usually treats him and Natasha comes in and starts making hand gestures at him. It says in Clint’s file that he can read many things: books, lips, and sign language. He learned the first from his mother when he was six. He learned the second two in the circus. He instantly realizes what the doctor is doing; he’s more than familiar with ASL. But, he is confused. He signs back, though. After some idle chit chat (How are you? What’s the problem, doctor?), doc finally cut’s to the chase. Clint, he signs. You’re deaf. It’s simple movements. The doctor points at Clint and then points to his own ear and the corner of his mouth. You’re deaf.   
Now Clint is scared. He shakes Natasha awake and she looks at his with red rimmed eyes. “You’ve been crying?” He asks out loud but can’t hear his voice. The startled look on his face must have tipped off Natasha that he’s realized that the doctor has told him. She starts to cry again. He starts to sign that he’s fine, he’s fine! He points all of his fingers up and touches his thumb to his chest before realizing that even though he can’t hear anything, she can hear him. “I’m fine, Tasha. It’s okay. I’m fine. See? We’re fine.” He’s reaching for her and she’s climbing into his bed like she did for a month after Sao Paulo. And, even though he can’t hear them, he can feel her shaking and sobbing. He feels the wet patches on his t-shirt from her tears. He holds her tight, even though his broken ribs ache in protest. “We’re fine, Tasha.” It’s his new mantra.   
“We’re fine.”  
# # #  
SHIELD gives him the “best hearing aids on the planet, Barton. Guaranteed.” With them in, he can hear about ninety percent in both ears. Too bad they hurt like a bitch. But, he wears them. He’s fine with being deaf. Really, he is. He’s great at sign language; always has been. And he uses his eyes a hell of a lot more than his ears. But, he wears the aids for Natasha’s sake. He wears them so that when they’re cleared to go in the field he will be able to hear her over the coms unit. He wears them so that she doesn’t have to relay order to him later. But mostly, he wears them so that it seems like everything is at least somewhat normal again. They can banter like they usually do. He can hear the ding! Of the elevator when it comes in HQ. He can hear every grunt and groan that echoes in the training room. But, the minute they get home, he slips the fucking things out of his ears and lets them rest. The bastards give him a crazy headache when he wears them for too long and he can’t wait for the day to be over so that he can take them out. But, the minute he sees Tasha watching him remove them, it’s like all the sparkle in her eye is gone. She realizes that everything isn’t normal anymore. They aren’t the same as they used to be. It’s like there’s a barrier between them. And, although she’s trying as hard as she can to learn ASL (He might be deaf but he still noticed when she snuck out of the house at night to go to the bookstore where they’d bought her first books two years ago, coming home with four thick books of Learning American Sign Language), it takes time for everyone; even Natasha Romanoff.   
And then he gets sick of it. He’s sick of the broken look on her face that she unsuccessfully tries to hide from him when he takes out the aids. He’s sick of her asking if he wants subtitles whenever they watch a movie together. He’s sick of her trying so fucking hard to sign him a simple question before giving up and writing the question down on paper instead. He’s sick of her feeling different around him.   
So, when she comes back from the store one day to find the living room table covered with random household items and an over-eager Clint sitting on the couch, she smiles the real smile he hasn’t seen in the few weeks since Budapest. He can’t help but feel slightly victorious.  
She knows that he doesn’t have his hearing aids in. He never does when they’re at home. So, while balancing a heavy paper bag of groceries she signs what’s up as best she can. She nearly drops the bag when she touches her middle fingers to her thumbs and brings them to her chest and away quickly. What’s up? She fumbles for a moment, trying not to drop the bag. Clint laughs at her and she glares at him.   
“I can read lips, you know.” She does know. She just always forgets. She overthinks it. She overthinks everything. And Clint thinks that her worrying is driving him crazy more than it is her.   
“Right,” she says walking backwards towards the kitchen so that he can see her lips. “What are you doing with all the stuff?” She starts to sort through the groceries and Clint comes to sit on the counter beside where she’s working unloading groceries. He tries to catch her eye, make her look at him, but she keeps averting her gaze.  
“Tasha.” It’s weird knowing that he’s talking but not being able to hear anything that comes out of his own mouth. He’ll get used to it, he hopes. But, more than that, he hopes that Natasha stops acting strange around him. “Look at me.” She braces her forearms against the edge of the counter and sighs. Her chin drops down to her chest before she reluctantly looks up at him. Her eyes are sad. “You’ve got to stop doing this.” She doesn’t ask what this is. They both already know. “I’m still the same person. You’ve got to stop acting like I’ve changed, like the accident changed me.”   
A flash of guilt crosses her face and she looks away again. “I’m sorry.” He can’t see her lips but he knows that she’s saying it.   
He tugs on her arm and pulls her over so that she’s standing directly in front of him. “I know. I’m sorry too. But, you’ve got to stop worrying. Hearing isn’t everything; especially to me. You know that. And I swear to God if you don’t stop moping around and actually smile I might just go crazy.” He flashes her a dopey grin and pokes her in the side. She smiles a little and Clint’s grin gets bigger. “There it is.” He hops down from the counter and tugs on her hand again, pulling her over to the couch. He pushes her into the cushions and ruffles her hair. She bats his hand away and he plops down on the couch beside her, handing her the TV remote. She looks at him expectantly. With a grin, Clint makes a thumbs up and touches his thumb to his top knuckle. “Remote.”   
“Remote,” she repeats, mimicking his action. Clint smiles. Good, he signs. She already knows that one and smiles.  
He takes the remote from her and exchanges it for a half full bottle of Simply Lemonade. “Lemonade,” he says, flicking his index finger in front of his mouth before making a drinking motion. She repeats the motions perfectly and Clint takes the bottle from her, taking a huge swig straight from the carton. He can’t help but laugh at Natasha’s grimace; she hates it when he does that.   
“Now for the most important sign,” he says in a tone that is as serious as the grave. He makes two fists and places one directly on top of the other, keeping one still and moving the top in counter clockwise circles.   
“What is that?” she asks, looking confused.   
“Coffee.” He is dead serious, not a trace a humor on his face. Natasha can’t help but laugh at that. She snorts and, although he can’t hear her, Clint relishes in the look on her face as she laughs. Her features are scrunched and she has a hand to her chest and dear god, why am I laughing? This isn’t even funny, she thinks. Perhaps it is because it has seemingly been the only bright spot in their lives in the last three weeks. In light of recent events they’d taken to watching everything with sub titles so that he wasn’t forced to wear the painful aids any more than necessary at home. But, when he feels the couch shift a bit and looks her way, only to see her doubled over in laughter and clutching her stomach, it isn’t the jokes on the TV that he misses, but the sound of her ridiculous snorting laughter.   
When she finally manages to gather her bearings, she catches her breath and asks, “Where did you learn ASL, anyway?”   
“In the circus. Our fire breather was a deaf as deaf could be.” She remembers him mentioning the circus on the day they met but, he’d never spoken another word of it since then. She suspects the forlorn look he gets on his face just then was because his time there ended badly. But, she’s never asked.   
Aiming to drag the conversation to a new topic, she attempts the motion he made before. “Like this?” she asks, twisting her fists together.   
Clint snorts at her attempt before grabbing her hands. “No,” he says keeping her bottom hand still and moves the other in slow circles. “Like this.” She isn’t looking at their hands though. She staring at him, straight in the eye. “See? Coffee.”  
“Uhuh,” she mumbled incoherently, trying to ignore the tingles shooting up her arm. Clint breaks eye contact first, kissing her knuckles before getting up from the couch and grabbing a few of the items off the table. “That’s enough for today, I think.”   
His back is to her so she knows he’s completely unaware of the groan she lets out, flopping back against the couch and running a hand down her face in frustration.   
# # #  
It had been just over a month since their sign language lesson. Now that Natasha was less worried about Clint’s hearing loss, she was quickly picking up the language to the point where they could hold full conversations in sign. It made it really easy to talk about Coulson while he was standing right in front of them. Fury had been sending them on a few easy missions just to get them back into the swing of things, which was nice. And, Natasha had gone back to flirting and teasing like she had before the accident. Clint knew he had to step up his game if he wanted to win their little competition, whatever it was.  
Yes, life was steadily going back to normal.   
On the morning of Natasha’s eighteenth birthday Clint rose bright and early. The pair had stayed up late the night before watching movies that Clint deemed mandatory of all Americans. They’d stayed up for the better part of the night and although he knew that Natasha was capable of functioning on far less sleep that necessary for a normal person, he hoped she would sleep in.   
He left the apartment as silently as possible, hopped in his car, and drove down to the Sander’s store downtown. He picked up their usual Chocolate Bumpy Cake that they had on either of their birthdays and every Christmas. When he returned home he put the cake in the refrigerator and peeled in Natasha’s room to make sure she was still asleep. Once satisfied, he got to work in the kitchen making random things that they had in the pantry.   
An hour later, there was a plate full of chocolate chip pancakes, bacon, a carton of Simply Lemonade, a bowl of stale gold fish, a box of pop tarts, dry cereal, a bowl of strawberries, and a couple of apples. Once satisfied that everything was ready, Clint plugged his iPod into the sound system and put the music on full blast. He could hear the thud of the bass but nothing else. Though, he knew Natasha would hear everything. Not a minute after the beginning cords of “Hot Blooded” by Foreigner started playing a somewhat sleepy-looking and thoroughly pissed Natasha stomped out of her room.   
What the fuck! She signed, ripping the iPod out of Barton’s hand and unplugging it. Clint was laughing so hard he could hardly stand. She looked just a tiny bit ridiculous in her pajamas with her red sleep-matted hair all over the place. We have neighbors, you know! Clint just kept laughing and Natasha took the opportunity to punch him in the arm. Not hard enough to hurt but definitely hard enough to get his attention. He abruptly stopped laughing and rolled his eyes at her.   
“Chill.”  
She brushed past him and studied the plates of food on the table. You know, she signed without looking up at him, pointing instead to the half empty bowl of gold fish. For being the adult in this relationship you’re more of a child than I am.  
“But you’re not a child anymore, now are you Miss Legal Adult.”   
It took her a moment to realize what he was talking about. With all of that had been going on in the last few months, she had completely forgotten that her birthday was even coming up. It’s my birthday? She signed. Clint arched his eyebrows up at her before nodding. I forgot.   
“Happens to the best of us. Come on!” He pulled on her hand and forced her down into one of the kitchen chairs before plunking a plate down in front of her. Natasha smiled when she saw the pancakes were chocolate chip. The pair usually had to resort to plain pancakes because Clint liked to sneak the chocolate chips and eat them like a fifty year old menopausal woman.   
Natasha was about to dig in when Clint slapped her hand away. “What?” she groaned, knowing that he would understand her. He stabbed a hole in her pancakes before sticking two candles in the shapes of a one and an eight into it. He lit the candles and signed at her to wish!  
“What no cake for breakfast this year?” she teased, looking up at him.   
Later. Now wish!  
Natasha didn’t wait a second longer. She blew out the candles all the while thinking please don’t let either of us get hurt any time soon. And an awesome birthday wouldn’t hurt either.   
As it turned out, her birthday was pretty uneventful and laid back. Unlike last year, they stayed in the apartment all day. They stayed in their pajamas, watched old movies, and ate all of the food that Clint had whipped up that morning. Around six thirty, though, Clint made her go put on real clothes, claiming that they were actually going to leave the house. Clint took her to a fancy restaurant downtown. It’s nice and they talk about things that have nothing to do with work or assassination attempts or hearing aids. Instead they talk about the movies they’ve watched in the last two days and why her taste in music is terrible and if they should paint the living room a different color (they were all effectively hilarious; because she’s Russian; yes eventually.)   
When they finish their meal they hop in the car and he drives them to Central Park. He parks and Natasha gets out of the car without a question. It makes Clint smile that she trusts him to take her anywhere. They walk down past Cherry Hill and cross over half of Bow Bridge. Clint climbs up and sits on the edge before turning to help Tasha up. They dangle their feet over the edge of the century and a half old cast iron bridge. They don’t talk much. It’s cold and the sun has been down for hours, even though it’s only nine o’clock. The winter makes the days shorter and it seems like her birthday has gone by way too fast. They can’t see the stars; the city lights are to blame for that. But, the lights twinkle off of the frozen water of the lake below and tiny little snowflakes drift around them. They stay there for at least an hour before Clint starts to shiver. Natasha makes a joke about his weak American blood not being suitable for cold weather, and insists that they go home.   
He lets her drive. Now that she’s actually halfway decent at it, Natasha actually likes driving. They arrive home shortly and Clint plucks out his hearing aids and sets them on the table by the door where they always rest whenever they’re at home before he heads to the kitchen to take a few aspirin for the headache they’ve given them. Natasha slips off the fancy heels Clint bought her for her last birthday and folds her coat over the armchair next to him before sitting on the couch. She hears the refrigerator door open and then the click of a lighter. Although completely expected, she still can’t help but smile when Clint comes around the corner carrying the all too familiar white box with candles poking out of the top. What she doesn’t expect though is for Clint to trip over the cord to the sound system that they had never bothered to pick up off the floor that morning. Natasha never thought it would be as hilarious as it was to see her ever-graceful master assassin of a partner trip and end up planting himself face first into her birthday cake. But, it was and before she knows it she can hardly breathe she’s laughing so hard. The candles extinguished themselves when they got mushed into the chocolate frosting and now Clint is sitting on the floor, face covered in cake, and looking both embarrassed and amused. He looks up to see Natasha laughing so hard she is clutching her stomach. “Hey!” he shouts, getting her attention. “You think that’s funny?” he asks, wiping chocolate cake from his eyes.  
Yes, she signs back at him. She’s laughing so hard that the sign comes out sloppy but Clint still knows that she finds his current situation hilarious. She practically falls over when she stands from the couch to come and kneel on the floor next to him. Yes, it’s hilarious. She’s about to wipe some chocolate crumbs off of his shirt when he mushes a glob of buttercream frosting onto her forehead.   
Natasha gapes at him. Clint is laughing his ass off. No you did not. She doubts he even noticed her signing but Tasha gnashes her teeth together and retaliates by shoving a handful of cake down his shirt and squishing it into his skin with the palm of her hand. She’s hoped it would shut him up but instead Clint just keeps laughing. He grabs a handful of cake and throws it at her head. She moves out of the way just barely in time and a little bit of frosting sticks to her hair, contrasting against the red. There is a splat! as the cake hits the hardwood floor somewhere behind her. Natasha growls and tackles Clint to the ground, pinning him under her body. She’s just about to shove more cake in his face when he surprises her by flipping them. She is now laying on the remains of what used to be her birthday cake which she has no doubt is ruining the dress she had worn out to dinner. Clint’s got her pinned to the floor and her face is level with his neck and dear God there’s a smudge of frosting on his neck and she can’t resist licking it off. She’s savoring the chocolaty taste when it occurs to her what she’s just done and freezes. With one simple movement she has shattered every single boundary they have ever laid down for themselves.   
But, with the way Clint is looking at her right now, she can’t help but not regret it for a minute.   
And then he’s kissing her. A real kiss, not one of those half kisses she’s been giving him over the last year. He’s kissing her and by God it’s breath taking and heart pounding and everything she’s never allowed herself to think about but has secretly hoped for four years. She’s spiraling out of control. His hands cups her face and sweet Jesus if he wasn’t such a damn good assassin he could be a fucking surgeon, that’s how steady his hands are as he holds her, like he’s not nervous at all, like he’d planned and hoped for this moment just as long as she has. His hands were as steady as a rock, so unlike hers, shaking and trembling as she works tentative fingers up under his shirt. He kisses the junction between her neck and shoulder and if her mind wasn’t so clouded by all things that are him, she probably would have been embarrassed by the sound that came out of her mouth as she lies there on the cake smudged floor. And for the love of god why didn’t we do this years ago?  
Because she’s a kid, Clint. She’s just a kid. He repeats it in his head over and over again as she wiggles her way out from underneath him and pulls him off the floor and towards his bedroom. She’s a kid. But fuck, she’s definitely not a kid, he thinks as she unzips her dress and lets it fall to the floor. Definitely not a kid. Natasha is all never-ending curves and smooth skin and he can’t help himself not to touch. There’s a scar on her shoulder from when he marked her with his arrow the first time they met. There’s another on her abdomen from Sao Paulo. He knows there’s an even longer, deeper one on her back. There’s a scar on her collar bone from a mission to Detroit a while back and bunch of tiny scars all across her torso from the explosion in Tijuana. And yet, even with all of these blemishes she’s somehow still flawless. And so, he kisses every single one of those flaws and Jesus Christ, she’s so soft.  
Natasha slips her hands back under his t-shirt before removing the offending article all together and scratching her nails down his back. He groans and sucks on her neck in retaliation. He feels the vibrations of her moan through the skin of her neck but can’t actually hear the sound. He pulls away and signs stay here, before rushing back out to the living room. He swipes his hearing aids off of the table by the door and plants them firmly in his ears, turning them on. His headache is long gone even though he couldn’t have taken the aspirin more than twenty minutes ago; the signs of pain flushed out of his system by all things Natasha. He can hear the floors creak as she paces in the bedroom though and make a beeline back in her direction.   
She’s standing in front of her bed looking anything but shy there in nothing more than her underwear. And, seriously, how did she go from a malnourished stick to that in two years? He may never get an answer but right now he doesn’t care. He doesn’t care that they’re partners of that if Fury finds out they’ll probably have their asses handed to them on a silver platter. He doesn’t care about the age difference of the fact that this could make her more of a liability to him than ever. He just doesn’t care about any of that. All he cares about is how much he has to have her right this second.  
Clint crosses over to her in three long strides and is kissing her again. He kisses her lips and her neck and shoulders and down her chest and this time he hears it. It’s slightly muffled from where she’s biting into his shoulder but it’s definitely there. She moans. She moans and the sound is so beautiful and heart stopping he nearly comes undone right then.   
But the night isn’t even close to over.  
Sex with Clint Barton might be the best thing Natasha has ever experienced. It’s everything she’d ever imagined it to be (not that she’d thought about sleeping with Clint before. Oh no, never) and then some. It’s better than the pure adrenaline rush she gets during missions. It’s better than Sander’s Chocolate Bumpy Cake. Fuck, it’s probably better than both of those combined.   
Afterwards when she’s sprawled across him and they’re both sweaty, sated, and practically puddles of post-orgasmic bliss, he laughs and brushes the hair from her face. She smiles up at him. “Best birthday present ever.”   
“Better than last year?” He looks at her with a cocky grin on his face.   
She thinks back to the concert and the flirting and the shoes and the driving and can’t control the nostalgia that washes over her. “I wouldn’t go that far, Barton,” she teases. Clint rolls his eyes and ruffles her hair. He notices a little bit of frosting that is miraculously still on her cheek. He sloppily licks the frosting off her cheek and then Natasha is giggling like a school girl. Giggles turn into the full on snorting laughter that Clint loves so much and he can’t help but to laugh along with her.  
Yes, best birthday ever.   
# # #  
The next morning they’re awoken by the distant ringing of Clint’s cell phone. He groans and rolls out from under her, grabs his boxers off the floor and saunters out to the living room. Natasha appreciates the opportunity to stare at his bare ass as he walks away. She covers her face with her hands and smiles to herself.   
She hears Clint hang up the phone and he comes back into the room. He’s wearing his boxers now but is only slightly less distracting. Natasha throws him sultry look and he leans down to kiss her. After a minute though, Clint leans away and pulls her out of bed before gently shoving her own towards the bathroom. “Alright, Hot Stuff. Get in there and take a shower. It’s go time.” He tries to sound upbeat, this will be their first real mission since the accident after all, but his voice holds a hint of dejection and she knows that he wishes their lovely, intimate time together hadn’t been cut short.   
Trying to make light of a somewhat upsetting situation, Tasha pulls him into the bathroom behind her. “Care to join me?” She smirks a little, knowing he’s considering it but after a moment he pulls away, trying to ignore all of the glorious naked Natasha curves in front of him.   
“Nope. Coulson says HQ in an hour.” He taps her on the nose before turning on the shower. “We’ve no time for your tomfoolery, Miss Romanoff. Natasha rolls her eyes before stepping into the shower to bathe. When she exits ten minutes later, she finds Clint cleaning the dried chocolate cake from the floor, still clad in only his boxers. She spots his hearing aids resting once again on the table beside the door and passes up the opportunity to sneak up on him. Instead, she heads back to her own bedroom and dresses in simple jeans and a SHIELD t-shirt, knowing that her suit is in her locker at HQ. She leaves her hair to air dry and slips into a worn pair of converse before heading out to the living room.   
Clint looks up at her and smiles. She loves his smile and in seeing it she knows that things will be different now. She returns the smile and signs, the shower’s all yours. Clint brushes the last of the cake crumbs into a dust pan and dumps them into the trash before making his way into the bathroom. Clint is in and out of the shower within five minutes and within another ten (somehow they’d misplaced the keys last night) they were out the door.   
When they arrive at headquarters, Coulson immediately knows that something is up despite the fact that Clint and Natasha are giving off no signs that anything is changed. He raises an eyebrow the moment he sees them and mutters an “I don’t want to know.” Clint however wants to know. Know how Coulson caught on to them so quickly, that is.  
# # #  
The mission is in Cairo.   
Something about a guy stealing ancient artifacts and selling them and using the money to fund something illegal. Or something. Really, Natasha is just a little behind because she’s just a bit distracted by the way Clint’s muscular arms flex as he plays with the string on his bow. It’s careless, she knows and so she tunes in at the last minute to hear Coulson say that the mark was highly dangerous, do you understand, agents? Both she and Clint nod.   
Once they land in Cairo, Coulson takes off in the quinjet for the closest SHIELD Headquarters which happen to be on the very tip of the Horn of Africa, Somalia. Clint and Natasha set up on the roof of the building across the street for a few days of observation. Luckily, both she and Clint are able to keep their hands (for the most part) to themselves during those first few days. They take turns following the mark around the city so as to be more inconspicuous. Once they feel like they have acquired enough information on the mark, Amun Ishaq’s daily pattern, they move in.   
Amun Ishaq is a father out looking for revenge. His son, Ramses was diagnosed with a rare form of brain cancer two years ago. Without treatment the boy would surely die. However, Ishaq was not a wealthy man and couldn’t afford the treatment his son so dearly needed. Because of this, the oncologists at the hospital paid little attention to Ramses and he died within a few months. Now, Ishaq was out for blood. He got on SHIELD’s radar when they realized that he was stealing priceless artifacts and selling them on the Black Market for money. However, it wasn’t until SHIELD realized what he was using the money for, did they put him on their hit list. Ishaq spent the money from the stolen artifacts on a very expensive, seemingly untraceable drug that he used to poison as many doctors at the hospital as he could. It didn’t matter if they were oncology or otherwise, to Ishaq, the more doctors dead, the better. He laced the doctor’s home water systems with the poison. As a result, ten doctors were dead and many of their family members as well, from drinking the poisoned water. Over twenty five people were dead in total and SHIELD wanted him dead. But, Fury wanted this kept quiet. They couldn’t afford another public scene like in Budapest and Tijuana. There were to be no civilians caught up in the middle.   
This meant that Clint is on the ground for this mission. It’s not unheard of but it is a lot rarer than Natasha is comfortable with. Sure, he’s great at hand-to-hand combat but, he loses just a little bit of his edge when he’s not seeing from a distance. It worries Natasha a lot more than it should and she has to swallow a lump in her throat when she sees Clint armed with only a few guns, instead of his usual bow and arrow.   
SHIELD managed to bribe Ishaq’s regular supplier, a man using the alias Mr. Isis, to leave town for a few weeks and make no contact with his client. This meant that Ishaq was looking for a new supplier. Clint and Natasha were that supply. Natasha had called Ishaq on a secure line a few days prior to their meeting. She’d spoken in perfect Egyptian Arabic and informed the mark that his old supplier was unable to meet his demands and had given his number to herself and her partner. They were willing to supply Ishaq the poison for a very reasonable price. The mark had been skeptical at first but, eventually agreed.   
Now, Natasha and Clint stood in the doorway of a tiny abandoned bookshop just outside of Downtown Cairo, Natasha couldn’t help but feel something akin to fear in the pit of her stomach. She had a bad feeling. Coulson had warned them that Ishaq was highly impulsive and dangerous. Don’t underestimate him, agents. But now, only minutes before the “exchange” was to be made, Natasha was more nervous than she’d ever been. Oh no, she wasn’t worried about herself. She’d been shot, stabbed, tortured, and blown up more times that she could count in her lifetime. No, she was worried for her partner; her very carefree, very deaf, and very much more comfortable up high partner. Natasha knew that when it came to the job, Clint was anything but carefree. She knew that he could probably hear better than she could with his custom SHIELD hearing aids. And, she knew that he was more than capable of taking care of himself when it came to hand-to-hand. But, even knowing all that, something still didn’t feel right.   
Natasha took a moment to squeeze Clint’s hand right before they went in for the meeting with Ishaq. “Remember, Tasha,” Clint muttered under his breath. “We need a confession first.” Natasha nodded pushed the door to the abandoned bookshop wide open. She and Clint stepped in, and scanned the room for their mark.   
“Mr. and Mrs. Barker, I presume?” He spoke in Arabic and his voice was deep and menacing. It only increased Natasha’s feeling of foreboding.   
“Mr. Ishaq, yes?” Clint spoke up first. His face was hard and he gave a no-nonsense look to the older man. The mark nodded his head. He looked at the pair suspiciously. What were two Americans doing selling lethal drugs in Egypt? Ishaq voiced his question and this time Natasha spoke up first.   
“My husband was transferred here a year ago for work. We need all the extra money we can get.” Her Arabic was flawless and much clearer than Clint’s.  
“And where do you acquire these medications if you are so short on money, Mrs. Barker?”   
Natasha internally winced but held her ground. “We have a friend from home who gives us a good price.”  
“That is a lot of exchanging of the product. You’ll understand that I am a bit apprehensive.”  
Clint spoke then. “Ours is the best you’ll find, Mr. Ishaq. Guaranteed.” The mark raised an eyebrow at Clint’s statement. It’s wasn’t uncommon for suppliers to advertise their product as the best out there. Clint wasn’t sure what the strange look was for.  
“If you don’t mind me asking, Mr. Ishaq. What are your specific reasons for wishing to obtain our product?” Clint could hear the slight shaking in his partner’s voice and sent her a worried look.   
“Actually, I do mind. I don’t see why that is relevant.” Ishaq’s tone had gone from detached to defensive. Clint could sense Natasha getting annoyed and skittish. His findings were only confirmed when her finger’s twitched towards the gun tucked in the back of her waistband. Clint knew that she wanted this mission to be over as soon as possible. He could sense it in the way she looked over her shoulder more often than usual; in the way she stayed just a bit too close to his side. But, as much as he wanted this mission over with too, Fury wanted the bastard to admit to his crimes.   
Clint discreetly brought his hand up to his chest and then moved it away a few inches in the ASL sign for confession. He knew Natasha had understood him because her fingers stopped twitching at her sides. Ishaq looked at him suspiciously and before either SHIELD agent could blink, had a small caliber gun pointed at each of them. Both agents instantly had their own firearms drawn and trained on the Egyptian man. “What was that? What was that motion? Why do you have guns?” The mark was rambling. Good, that means he’s more likely to let something slip.   
“We’re drug suppliers, Mr. Ishaq. Drug suppliers always carry weapons for safety.” Clint was using his soothing voice on the mark. Too bad it wasn’t doing much to soothe Tasha. Her heart was pounding in her chest and a light sweat broke out above her brow. Something’s going to go wrong. “The motion just means ‘calm down.’ My wife doesn’t like exchanges. They make her tense. She needs to calm down. So do you.” Natasha attempted to take her partner’s advice, but she simply couldn’t relax her rigid posture.   
“Don’t tell me what to do!” Ishaq yelled, his heavy Egyptian dialect got thicker. Clint stood from his defensing stance but kept his gun trained on the mark. Natasha felt a bead of sweat run down her temple. The mark’s hands were visibly shaking. “I don’t believe you! Who sent you?” He didn’t even give either of them a chance to answer before he pulled the triggers on both guns. Natasha didn’t flinch. His hands were shaking so badly that he missed her by several feet. Clint rolled out of the way of the bullet heading his way and Natasha instantly hit the mark between the eyes. Ishaq was dead before he hit the ground but Clint was still very much alive. And in pain.   
Natasha had heard him grunt when the bullet had hit him. She panicked and pulled the trigger, orders from Fury be damned. She quickly rushed to Clint’s side and put pressure on the wound just below his collar bone. He groaned at the pressure but otherwise pushed her hands away and sat up. He’d hit nothing important, he knew that for sure. But, Natasha was acting like this was Sao Paulo all over again. “I’m fine, Tasha.” He tried to calm her but she was having none of it.   
She was crying silent tears and Clint couldn’t help but notice how over the years, she’d gone from never crying , only shaking to crying at a simple bullet wound. “God, how many times is this going to happen?” She was clutching her hair and his blood on her hands matched almost exactly to the shade of her natural tresses.   
“Natasha, I’m fine. Look at me.” She held her ground and Clint was forced to pull her chin up so that he could look her in the eye. “I’m fine. I swear. Look.” Clint shakily got to his feet and extended the hand attached to his uninjured arm down to her. “See? I’m fine. Now can we get out of here and get me some pain meds?” He sent a shaky smile down her way but she promptly ignored it. Natasha stood from the ground and wiped her bloody hands on her jeans before exiting the little abandoned book shop. Clint took one last look at the dead body of Amun Ishaq and sighed before following his partner back to transport.  
# # #  
It was really nothing. He had a broken clavicle and that was it. She’d spilt tears for a broken collarbone. And, she still hadn’t snapped out of it. She was dazed and quiet and hadn’t said a word since they boarded the quinjet in Cairo over thirteen hours ago. They sat in the debriefing room in front of Coulson and silently listened to him explain that Amun Ishaq’s careless handling of the powdered drug had led to some deterioration of his brain cells, causing him to go crazy and become paranoid. He’d pulled the trigger and thankfully no one was seriously hurt. Clint would be out of commission for a few weeks but all would once again be right.   
Once dismissed from debriefing, they headed out to the parking garage and Natasha wordlessly took the keys from Clint. It would be a bit hard for him to drive with one arm in a sling. The ride home was just as silent as the flight had been. They hadn’t even been home a minute when Natasha started to make a beeline for her room. Clint grabbed her arm to halt her though, choosing to leave his hearing aids in for the time being. It would be easier to have this conversation if they weren’t signing. “Natasha, what’s wrong?”   
She shook her head. “Nothing,” she muttered, attempting to pull free of his grasp. Clint simply pulled her in closer and hugged her as best he could with one arm. Natasha stayed as stiff as a board.   
“Nat, this wasn’t your fault.”   
“Yes it was, Clint.” She finally looked at him for the first time since she’d knelt over him in that bookshop. “Since we started working together I’ve gotten lazy. I’ve let my guard down a hell of a lot more than I should. And look where that’s gotten us. You’re in a sling and I’m…I’m compromised.” She rested her hear against his good shoulder.   
“What are you talking about? You haven’t gotten lazy. You’re not compromised!”   
She pulled away from him and sent him an exasperated look. “Barton, for fuck’s sake I can’t lose you! You’re the only person I’ve ever trusted, ever cared about. That makes me compromised!” She wasn’t crying but now she looked pissed. Clint wasn’t sure which scared him more. “What am I supposed to do without you? I’m not ever going to find out; I can tell you that right now.”   
Clint sighed and pulled on her arm again. “Come here, Tasha. Everything’s going to be fine. We had a bad mission. It’ll be fine.”   
“No, Clint!” She pushed him away and he had to fumble to regain his balance. “This is just like after fucking Tijuana all over again. You can’t coddle me! You can’t just hug me and kiss me and pretend like it’s going to keep us from getting hurt. For fuck’s sake! I have to stop acting like a child and start acting like an operative. If I can’t watch your back then I can’t be your partner, God, Sao Paulo, Budapest and now this!” She was yelling. A loud pounding came from the floor above and Natasha instantly deflated. “I’m not going to lose you.” Her voice was quiet and calm now. “If that means that I have to give you up then fine. You’re not going to die because I’ve been careless, Clint Barton. And I’m not going to watch you.”   
“So what? You’re just going to leave?” Now he was yelling. He was furious and he was hurt. What is she even saying? “You’re going to stop being my partner, stop being my friend?” Clint knew ‘friend’ didn’t even come within light years of describing what they were but at the moment that was the last thing on his mind. “Who’s going to watch my back then? Huh, Natasha? Who?”   
“Hopefully, you’ll start watching your own, Barton.” She sounded cold and detached.  
“That’s bullshit and you know it!”   
“Yeah, well I’m obviously not doing my job as your partner anymore. So why even try?” With that she snatched the keys from the table by the door where she’d tossed them not more than ten minutes earlier.   
The slam of the door closing resonated throughout the entire apartment.  
# # #  
When Natasha walks out the door, Clint assumed that she’d be back within a few hours, once she’d had time to cool off. He was wrong.   
She doesn’t come back.  
She moves out. She’s old enough now to own her own apartment. She comes back one day while he’s at HQ and takes all of her things. Clears out her room and leaves the keys to his car on the table by the door. When he comes back from work that day, a part of his heart breaks. He gets a horrible feeling that he’s being broken up with. Which, of course, is ridiculous; they weren’t even in a relationship. Fuck, after her birthday, he doesn’t have the slightest clue what to call whatever it is that they have. But, whatever it was, it’s gone now just like her, her scent that had lingered in his apartment every day for the two years they’d been living together, and it’s gone. She’s gone.   
She constantly asks Fury for solo missions. She claims that she can’t work effectively with Agent Barton and that she has more than proved herself over the past two years to be given the opportunity to take on advanced solo missions. Fury grants her request.   
Coulson isn’t pleased. He’d grown fond of the fiery redheaded teenager over the years. He loved Clint and Tasha like they were his own crazy, impulsive, lethal children. And, he couldn’t help but feel like separating the two of them was like splitting up Bonnie and Clyde, Turner and Hooch, Holmes and Watson. Without one, the other was incomplete.  
Coulson’s theory is only proved over the next three years. Agents Barton and Romanoff go months on end without seeing each other, let alone work with each other on a mission; which, in all honesty, was the way they liked it. They were sad, miserable, masochistic creatures. Why else would they constantly put themselves deliberately in Death’s path?   
Natasha becomes bitchy, cold, and detached without Clint. She becomes even more careless than she claimed to be on that fateful November day. She goes on her solo missions without thoroughly reading files, gets seriously injured a few times, and nearly killed a couple more. She even managed to get herself held captive for two weeks in Saudi Arabia. By the time SHIELD was able to locate her, she was practically beaten to a pulp. It wasn’t Barton that had come to save her ass though. No, it was a group of random agents. Barton wasn’t even aware of the situation until two weeks after she’d been recovered. She’d just been released from the medic wing when Barton bumped into her in the hallways and curtly told her that he was glad she was alright, trying to ignore the still-present bruises that littered her face and most of her body. Natasha has merely nodded and kept on down the hall. After Saudi Arabia she didn’t sleep for weeks and found herself wanting to climb into Clint’s bed like she had so long ago. She didn’t though. At that point it had been two years since their less-than mutual split. The past was the past. Natasha would have to deal with her demons on her own.   
Clint wasn’t much better. Although his missions remained in perfect execution, his home life was a bit messier. To say that Clint might have developed a bit of an alcohol problem wouldn’t be completely correct. He had developed a drinking problem on his off days; that was it. To say that he would fuck anything that walked wouldn’t be correct at all. He’d fuck anything that walked and was a redheaded, including other SHIELD agents. At one time it got to a point that Fury had to forcefully remind him of the deal they’d made after Tijuana. He’d keep his act together or he’d be on the streets. End of discussion. But really, what did how much he drank and who he slept with have anything to do with his job? He still successfully completed missions. He wasn’t dead yet. What was the problem? But, he knew the answer to that question. The problem was that no amount of redheads could ever replace the one he’d let go. No amount of alcohol could erase her from his thoughts. And, no amount of anything could make him forget the disappointed look Phil shot him every day saying you shouldn’t have let her go. Yeah, he knew what the problem was.  
Despite the obvious difference that had sprung up between them over the last three years since their “break up,” as most of SHIELD assumed the duo weren’t aware it was called, they were still able to be civil towards each other during missions. They’d worked a handful together over the past three years: Melbourne, Ontario, Nice, London, Venice, and St. Petersburg, all successful. And that was what mattered, pulling off successful missions.  
At least that was what they tried to tell themselves.  
# # #  
When it’s been just more than four years to the day since their split, they are assigned Munich.   
The Munich mission is easy. Simple. Very, very strictly reconnaissance. They’re to attend a charity gala at the Nymphenburg Palace, hosted by Klaus Schäfer, a popular diplomat suspected of funding biochemical weapons manufacturing. It was scary shit and Natasha didn’t want to know any of the specifics. She just wanted to get into this gala, “overhear” some information, and get out.   
Barton stepped out of the SHIELD provided limousine first, before turning around to take her hand and help her. She stepped out of the vehicle in a floor length, satin, curve-hugging, navy dress. And, although missions between the pair of agents had been stressed over the last few years, Clint didn’t have to pretend to appreciate the view. Natasha looped her arm through his and he led her into the gala.   
Once inside, they both discreetly did a quick visual scan of the room in search for Schäfer. They chatted idly while searching; their eyes skipping from place to place so quick a normal person wouldn’t notice them search. Despite their recent past, they still worked obscenely well together; there was no denying it. The duo sipped champagne for a few moments before heading out to the large dance floor in order to continue their search more discreetly. Natasha attempted to ignore the tingles that shot up her spine as Clint took her waist and they began a slow waltz. Neither looked at the other; simply searched over the other’s shoulder for their mark. Clint let his mind wander as he searched the seemingly never ending sea of strangers.   
She looked beautiful; not that she normally didn’t. The scar on her shoulder was just visible underneath the strap of her halter dress and Clint couldn’t help but glance at it ever few minutes. “Stop staring at it, Barton.” Her tone was light and playful; more so than he had heard it in years. Natasha smirked up at him before returning her gaze over his shoulder. “Don’t bother staring at things you can’t have.”  
“Well why not?” he grumbled under his breath. Natasha ignored the comment and they continued dancing in silence for a few minutes. Finally, the question slipped from his tongue on its own command. “Why can’t I have you, Tasha?” The nickname threw her off guard but she said nothing. “Why did you leave?”  
“You’re better off without me.” Her answer was blunt and cold.  
“No I’m not. I’m the exact opposite.” He tried to catch her gaze but she focused dedicatedly over his shoulder. “Tasha, I’m the farthest thing from better off without you.”  
“I was a distraction.” Her voice was still cold but at least she was looking at him now. Her eyes looked lonely and sad. “A liability. You needed me gone and I couldn’t stand by and watch you get hurt again.” She took a deep breath. “So I left.”  
Clint wanted to say something about how the only thing that could keep him from getting hurt was if she was around. But, he decided against it when he realized that 1) she would probably punch him really hard for being sappy, and 2) he was staring directly at their mark. So, instead of saying something that would embarrass himself, Clint focused on the mission. “Schäfer at your six o’clock. There’s another man with him. I-It looks like Sebastian Fischer.”  
“The chemist?” Clint merely nodded once. “Spin me,” Natasha ordered. Clint spun her around as told and they were now in opposite positions. “Yes, that’s him. I’ve seen a picture of him from briefing. Come on,” she said, pulling on his hand and leading him into a long hallway. “I’ll bet they’ll look for somewhere quiet to discuss things.” They walked about halfway down the long corridor before stopping and moving into the alcove of a door.   
They stayed there in silence for a good ten minutes before Clint started to get antsy. “Tash, I don’t think they’re coming-” she shushed him, waving a hand in his face before throwing herself at him. Before he even knows what’s going on she’s shoving him up against the side of the alcove and her tongue is in his mouth. And, well, he’s not really one to complain, so he kisses her back. He runs a hand down the length of the back of her dress before fisting one hand in her loose curls. She moans and Clint can just make out the sounds of two sets of footsteps passing by on the marble floors, and the German equivalent of “Ah, young love,” murmured. Once the footsteps are far enough away and they both hear the undeniable sound of a door at the end of the hall closing, Natasha pulls away.   
Clint sees that sparkle in her eye that has been missing during every mission they’ve been on together in the last four years. He leans down to kiss the scar on her shoulder from where he first hit her almost six years ago. Natasha can’t help but start to laugh as he kisses up her neck and eventually she’s snorting that terrible snorting laughter that she hates but he loves and has missed hearing so much recently. She eventually has to push him away to that she can breathe and calm down. Clint can’t help but smile at her mussed hair and slightly smudged lipstick. She’s smiling back at him too. “I missed you, Tash.”  
“Yeah, yeah whatever, Barton. Let’s just get this mission over with and go home.” He follows her down the hallway silently and smiles again when she presses her ear to the door at the end of the hall, trying to overhear information.  
Clint knows that he should be listening too but, all he can manage to think about is that she called it home.


End file.
